


Peculiar Admiration

by QueenOfTheDreamers (QueenOfDreamers)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 55,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24290953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfDreamers/pseuds/QueenOfTheDreamers
Summary: When Christine is first taken into Erik's lair, she finds herself curious and fascinated. The course of events immediately takes a path that will lead Christine away from Raoul and Meg and ever more deeply into the arms of her tutor. Christine is shocked when she is chosen to play the Duchess in Il Muto. Erik, meanwhile, having successfully banished La Carlotta and supplanted her with his beloved Christine, pulls his pupil in more closely by the day. Erik/Christine WIP.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 156
Kudos: 159





	1. It Is Time You Knew The Truth

**Author's Note: This will be a re-telling of** _ **Phantom of the Opera**_ **based primarily on the ALW-verse, with some Kay and Leroux thrown in for good measure. In this story, Christine's first experience with Erik goes quite differently from how it does in canon, and things spiral into an alternate storyline from there.**

"Things have changed, Raoul!"

Christine planted her hands squarely on her boudoir table and heaved herself to her feet, but it was no use. Raoul had gone to ready himself to take her to dinner. But Christine knew better; she knew her Angel of Music would want to debrief her turn as Elissa. After all, this was their shared triumph - the culmination of years of study made manifest upon the stage.

"How dare that boy come in here and try to seduce you!" spat a voice, echoing through the dressing room. Christine's eyes went round as saucers, and her lips trembled in fear. "Blathering idiot - feeding off our triumph!"

Christine looked around the room for the source of the voice. But he was her angel, and he always spoke to her from some unseen, heavenly place. And he was often angry, like this. Christine had not known that angels could have such tempers until she'd been late to lessons a few times.

"Angel," she whispered, "He's just a boy from my youth. Forgive me. I will send him away."

"Come to the mirror," murmured the ethereal voice. "Come look at yourself in the mirror. It is time, Christine."

"Time?" she echoed, but she obediently walked to the full length mirror and studied her own reflection. She had a woman's body these days, curved around her bust and waist and hips. She wore her _Hannibal_ bodice and a petticoat beneath her dressing gown, and her dark curls spilled around her shoulders. Her stage makeup was beginning to melt off her face just a little, her right eye's kohl smeared a tiny bit. She sighed and wondered about dinner with Raoul. Two minutes, he'd said. She needed to hurry and change if she was to go with him. But she knew her Angel would permit no such thing. When Raoul returned, Christine would have to shoo him away. Raoul seemed sceptical about the very existence of an Angel of Music. " _No doubt,_ " he'd said dismissively when she'd told him that her father had sent her an Angel. But Christine knew the truth. Her Angel was as real as… well, as real as a person.

Suddenly there was a shift in her reflection, a glint. She furrowed her brows and saw something beyond her own countenance. It was a face - a gleaming white mask over half of the features, and the other side a handsome visage. Christine whirled around, expecting to see Raoul standing behind her with a costume piece on. But there was no one there. Terrified that she was hallucinating, Christine turned back to the mirror and saw the masked face again. She noticed now that the figure wore a black fedora and an elegant black cape. Who was this ghost, this phantom, this…

"Angel?" she choked out, and the figure's gloved hand reached outward. Suddenly there was a click, and the mirror swung open like a door. Christine gasped when she saw that there was empty space behind the mirror, rather than the wallpaper that covered the rest of the room. Then she gasped again, for the masked figure she had seen in the reflection stood before her in the dark space, as solid as a human being. Christine staggered backward and tripped on the hem of her dressing gown. She fell onto her backside, landing hard on the carpeted floor. The figure behind the mirror, she saw, held a lantern, and as it stepped out from the space, it loomed like a beast above her. She wanted to scream, to call out for Raoul, but instead she just whispered again,

"Angel?"

The figure held out a gloved hand, and Christine put her fingers into the palm, entirely on instinct. She let him heave her to her feet, and once she stood staring up at him, she realised something.

Her Angel of Music was a man. A very human man.

Suddenly she saw spots. She couldn't breathe. She tried to swallow, but her throat had gone tight. She mumbled to him,

"I have to go; I'm going to have dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny, and I -"

"It is time, Christine." He'd already said that, but he said it again, more warmly this time. He pulled on her hand, and Christine realised she was being guided to the space behind the mirror. She stepped into the stone tunnel that lay beyond the mirror, struggling to see in the dim light of her Angel's lantern. He reached behind them and pulled the mirror-door shut, and Christine could see now that it was one-way glass. She could see, translucently, into her dressing room. She shook a little at the thought of that, at the idea of a human man watching her through this mirror. Suddenly the door of the dressing room sounded with firm knocking, and Raoul's voice called out,

"Christine! Are you ready for supper?"

Christine opened her mouth to call back to him, but a gloved hand clapped over her lips and silenced her. She turned to the masked figure and glared up at him, but he just shook his head. Raoul knocked again, calling somewhat merrily,

"Christine? Christine?"

She stood in frozen silence, the gloved hand warm against her face. She was pulled back into the tunnel, about six feet from the mirror, and she let out a little noise of protest. She shut her eyes and tried to calibrate what she'd just discovered… her Angel of Music was a human being. Her father hadn't sent a real angel. She'd been tutored into her luscious new singing voice by a man. A man. The person holding his hand over her mouth right now was a human man.

The door to the dressing room burst open, and Raoul stood there in his coat, holding a walking stick and his hat. He looked around confusedly and said again,

"Christine?"

He paced the room for a long moment, and Christine just stared at the man in the mask. Half his face seemed extraordinarily good-looking in the lamplight; he had one dark eye framed by a thick but shapely brow. His nose was stately, Roman and masculine. Half of his mouth curled into a little smile, as though he were very amused by all of this. His skin was free of marks of blemishes, if just a little wrinkled. But the other side of his face, the half covered by a shining bone-white mask, seemed different. His lips were swollen and marred on that side. His eye seemed sunken behind the mask, and it was so pale grey that she wondered if it could see at all. Around the eye, she could see rivulets of veined, raised tissue. And, strangely, it appeared as though he had no ear at all on that side of his head. His hair, black in the darkness of the tunnel, was combed neatly backward but was very obviously a wig.

Who _was_ this man?

"Christine…"

She snapped her eyes back to the mirror, looking out into the dressing room. She could see the confusion, the hurt painted on Raoul's face. He huffed a breath and dragged his fingers through his sandy hair, striding quickly out of the dressing room and pulling the door shut behind him. He'd go off to look for her, she thought. He'd try to find her among the ballet corps; he'd ask Madame Giry where Christine had gone. But no one, no one except the man whose glove was clasped over Christine's mouth right now, would know that she had vanished behind a mirror.

Christine squirmed against the glove, and her Angel of Music released her. He whispered to her, for the third time,

"It is time you knew the truth. Come with me."

"The truth," she repeated, feeling confused. He moved back a few steps and then descended onto a stair, and when he turned back, he held out his hand again. Christine very hesitantly placed her fingers onto his glove, and he squeezed just a little. She began to descend a winding staircase with him, little flecks of golden light from the lantern illuminating just a few feet in front of them at a time. Christine's heart hammered in her chest and her breath hitched as she wondered where the devil they were going. Down, down, down, they went, until Christine thought she'd descended into the underworld of Hades himself. It got cold as they went down, and she shivered in her dressing gown.

"How much farther?" Christine finally dared to ask.

"Almost there," confirmed her Angel. She glanced back behind her, but without the light of the lantern, what lay above was pitched in darkness. Her stomach quivered with fear as she realised how alone she was with this man, with the figure who had appeared in the mirror.

Finally, _finally_ , they reached the bottom of the stairs. They began to walk through a tunnel, and her Angel held up his lantern to illuminate their way. The tunnel was arched, stone on the sides and ceiling and damp on the floor. Christine wondered again where the blazes they were going. As if he'd read her mind, the man in the fedora turned his masked face towards her and said,

"Believe it or not, Christine, I live down here."

"Wh-what?" Christine was being rude, she thought, but she couldn't care. They reached the end of the labyrinthine tunnel and, somewhat shockingly, came to the shores of a lake. An underground lake? Christine furrowed her brows and let her mouth fall open in wonder.

There were candelabras on surfaces of stone in the centre and along the banks of the lake, making the dark water glitter in candlelight. Christine marveled for a moment, her breath utterly swept away. Then she saw a Venetian-style gondola pulled up onto the shore, a stick for punting lying beside it. Her Angel of Music guided her hand until she approached the boat, and then he urged her to sit on the red velvet cushion.

Raoul was upstairs looking for her, Christine thought distantly. He wouldn't find her. He would never find her. No one would ever find her. That thought made her heart race again, made her feel a little queasy. When she looked over her shoulder, the masked man was pushing the gondola into the lake and then carefully balancing himself in the stern, pushing away from the shore. He punted them through the water, towards a closed portcullis that seemed to be shutting them off from the opposite side. But as they approached the portcullis, it began to rise mechanically out of the water. Christine wondered at how this all worked - the endless stairs, the underground tunnel, the lake, this gate… how had she not known that any of this lay in the bowels of the opera house? How could she possibly have gone so long without realising that her Angel was a man?

"You are not an angel," she mused aloud, and when she turned again, the masked man stared down at her and said,

"You needed me to be an angel, and so I was. I am a ghost, a phantom, an angel."

"A man," Christine corrected him, and he tartly responded,

"Not many have thought so, at least not in my experience."

What did _that_ mean, she wondered? She stayed turned around and pushed him.

"Why do you wear a mask?"

"I am… damaged. My face is not fit for eyes like yours," he said gravely. Christine licked her lips and then turned back around, gasping a little. As they approached the far side of the lake, she could see that there was a home constructed on the shore. There appeared to be a set of rooms, with ornate doors, that had been built straight out of the rock. The brick exterior of the 'house' fit perfectly against the curves and juttings of the stone. Through the open windows, Christine could see flickering candlelight, and as the boat shored itself, she slowly stood and let her Angel assist her out onto the rocky beach. He led her up to the house, and when he opened the door and gestured inside, she asked him softly,

"Who are you? Why have you brought me here?"

"You've known me for ages, Christine, and I have brought you here to explain everything," he said softly. "Please, enter."

Christine hesitated before she stepped into the foyer of the house. There was dark green damask wallpaper with lit sconces, and she looked around as she realised he'd built himself a real home down here, levels below the opera house.

"Who are you?" she asked again, turning around.

"Perhaps we might talk over some tea," suggested her Angel of Music.

Raoul was looking for her upstairs, Christine thought distantly. She shut her eyes and repeated,

"Tea. Erm… all right."

She followed him to the left, into a kitchen with a table and chairs. She asked nervously,

"Are you going to hurt me?"

He whirled around, the good side of his face looking utterly shocked. "Hurt you? _Never._ Never you."

"I see," Christine nodded. She gulped and sat at the table, watching as the angel - the _man_ \- stirred about in the kitchen. He pumped water into a basin, heated it over a running stove, and filled a ceramic teapot. He let the pot warm and then dumped the water out, pouring boiling water over aromatic tea leaves. All the while that he moved, smooth as a cat, Christine wondered just who he was. He was her teacher, she thought. She'd known him for ages, as he'd said. But she'd never actually met him. And now she knew he was a man. A human man.

She'd often dreamed of her Angel of Music. She'd dreamed of an angel who would stand behind her and snare his arms around her slowly, embracing her in a heavenly wrap of affection. She didn't know why she'd begun having those sorts of dreams in the past year, but she had. And now that she knew he was human…

"How have you been teaching me?" she demanded, and when the Angel turned around, holding a tray with a tea set upon it, he murmured,

"Magic. Deception. Trickery. The phantom voice you heard was always that of a man. A musician, an architect, an illusionist. All of these things and more am I, your Angel of Music."

"You deceived me," Christine affirmed. "You tricked me into thinking you were the angel my father had sent."

"How well would you have received the idea of a man standing behind a mirror?" he questioned, his dark brow cocking up. He sat opposite Christine and poured the tea, saying quietly, "You like yours with two lumps of sugar."

He knew that because he'd seen her drink tea during lessons. She shuddered at the idea that it had been a human man all of this time, and then she began to cry. She felt very foolish, very stupid. How could she have believed in an angel when it had been a solid mortal teaching her? How could she have believed in her father's mythology when her tutor had been a masked gentleman in a tuxedo?

"You sang so beautifully tonight." The man held his cup of tea in his hands but did not sip. She knew why he hesitated to drink before her; his face was half bloated, half distorted. It was as he'd said; he was destroyed on part of his face. She wondered what lay beneath the mask, and she asked,

"Did I please you, Angel?"

"You needn't call me that, not now that you know I am but a man."

"Well, what should I call you?" Christine asked, her voice trembling. "Are you the Opera Ghost?"

He nodded, and she shut her eyes, thinking of how the set piece had come crashing down, nearly hitting La Carlotta. This man was dangerous, she thought. She whispered,

"It's been you for years, playing tricks on all of us."

"And teaching you," he said firmly. "I have been your teacher. Now. As to what you ought to call me, I suppose you might use my name. Not many have used my name, but I should like it from you."

"And what is your name?" Christine heard the tremor in her voice as she sipped her sweetened tea. He stared at her for a long moment, and she studied the mask. Then at last he said, in a voice as smooth as silk,

"Erik. My name is Erik."

"Erik," she repeated, and his face shifted. He tipped his head and murmured,

" _Kheili zibaayi._ "

"I'm sorry?" Christine shook her head, not understanding. Erik dragged his fingers along the rim of his teacup and whispered,

"You were perfect tonight. I have nothing to correct about your performance."

"Erik." Christine looked around the kitchen and licked her lips. "Raoul will be worried. So worried. So will Madame Giry."

"Don't fret," said Erik. "I've let Madame Giry know that you are safe."

She frowned, confused by that. How had he done _that_? She shook her head, and he suggested,

"You could stay here for the night. It is late."

"S-Stay here?" Christine felt her eyes go wide. "I can't do that. I… it would be improper!"

"You have your own bedroom," he promised her, and Christine was confused. He shifted in his seat, cleared his throat, and said, "I confess that I have been planning this evening for some time. I've got dinner prepared. Are you hungry?"

Her stomach betrayed her as it growled a little in response to his proposition. She nodded, and when he rose, he walked back into the kitchen. She noticed now that despite his slight limp, he moved elegantly. He opened the stove and pulled something out with towels in his hands, then began arranging food upon plates. Christine just stared into her tea and wondered what she was doing. Shouldn't she have screamed when he had his glove against her mouth? Shouldn't she have cried out for Raoul? But something had compelled her to follow him down here, down into his dungeon lair, and she found herself curious. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to find out what was behind his mask. And now that she knew her Angel of Music was a real man, her dreams of having his arms around her made her shiver. His voice had always caressed her. His voice had kissed her for years.

Suddenly a plate was put before her, and Christine looked down to see roast lamb and potatoes. She was handed a fork and a knife, and when she looked up, she wondered briefly if she should stab her captor with the knife. But then she examined his face and saw her teacher, and she gratefully, wordlessly, cut into her food.

They ate in silence for a time, until at last Christine asked,

"How long have you lived down here?"

"Years," he said evasively. "I built it myself. I've built things far grander than this."

"You are a genius," she breathed. She stared at his mismatched eyes and said, "You've composed things for me to sing. You've tutored and honed my voice. You played violin for me. You sang… you sing so wonderfully. And you're an architect, a magician. What is it that you can not do?"

"I can't…" he looked away. "I can not live among society. And in that way, I am damned, you see."

"What, just because of the mask?" Christine scowled. "How bad could it possibly be?"

"Worse than you can imagine," he said sharply. Christine decided to drop the subject of the mask. She ate the rest of her lamb and potato, and she sipped her tea. Finally, Erik took their dishes back to the kitchen and put them in the wash basin, and he came back, holding out his hand like he'd done a few times now.

"You have been my teacher." Christine put her hand in his and rose. "And you're real. You're a man."

"I am." He nodded. "I am a man. And you are a woman. Gone is the little flit that you once were. You've grown."

She shuddered at that, at the suggestiveness of his words. She stood facing him with her hand in his, and she was tempted to ask him to take her back. _Take me back across your lake,_ she almost said. _Back through the tunnel and up the stairs and into my dressing room. Take me back._ But then she gazed up into his face and heard herself murmur,

"You may be a man, but you are still my Angel of Music. I forgive your deception."

He tipped his head again - a habit of his, it seemed - and smirked. "Well, thank you. Shall I show you to your room?"

Christine thought she'd gone mad as she let him lead her out of the kitchen and down the main corridor. To the left, she saw a room with a stout four-poster bed, dark wallpaper, and heavy wooden furnishings. But he didn't take her in there. He took her to the room across the hall, a much lighter space. The walls were butter yellow and there was a pine sleigh bed with a cream-coloured down blanket and soft-looking pillows. There was a headless mannequin at the far side of the room, and upon the mannequin was the most beautiful silk nightgown Christine had ever seen, with pink and blue embroidery and a sash around the waist. She gasped, nearly fainting as she realised he'd prepared all of this for her. She whirled around and blinked rapidly, feeling like she was going to lose consciousness.

"Christine," said Erik in a soothing voice, and he reached out to touch her shoulder. His wig shifted on his head a little as he squared his jaw and said softly, "I have longed to bring you here, to be with me."

"To be with you…" Christine felt like all she was doing was repeating what he said. Her eyes welled heavily as she thought he must be a madman, a monster who had plotted to kidnap her. She took a step back from him and said, "Perhaps you should take me back to my dressing room now."

"Christine," he said again, and for some reason, when he spoke her name, her flesh prickled all over. She'd heard him say her name a thousand times before, but right now it was like honey and milk from his scarred lips. He tightened his hold on her shoulder and whispered it. "Christine."

"I'll stay the night," she finally said in a shaking voice, "if you promise not to harm me."

"I would _never,_ " he vowed. "Not ever. I've told Madame Giry that you are safe."

"All right," Christine whispered. She glanced back to the nightgown on the mannequin and shivered. She gulped, turning back to Erik. "On one condition."

"Name it," he said stoutly. She took a shaking breath and said,

"Show me what's under the mask."

His face hardened, and he shook his head no. "It would ruin everything."

"Then take me back," she said defiantly, and he squared his shoulders, huffing a breath.

"Very well."

She scowled. Was he that determined not to show her his face that he would sooner return her than remove his mask? She scoffed and said,

"For years, you have been an angel to me. A phantom voice whose source I could not see. You have comforted me. Do you remember when the other ballet girls were teasing me, and you soothed me? I believed my father had sent you to protect me. And now you won't show me your face?"

"No, I will not, because it would ruin everything," he spat. Christine reached up, undeterred by his insistent anger, curling her fingers around the edge of the cold porcelain mask. Erik reached up and snatched at her wrist, squeezing too tightly. Christine yelped in pain, and he let up on her, still holding her wrist. He shook his head again, but Christine said firmly,

"If you want me to stay with you, then you must reveal yourself to me."

"You'll flee," he said in a knowing voice, nodding. "You'll run away."

"Nothing you could show me could frighten me so badly as all that," she said, tipping up her chin. "You have called me brave before; do you not think me brave now?"

"Too brave," he whispered, pulling at her wrist. But Christine peeled at the edge of the mask, and it came off in one sweep of her hand. Erik scrambled to catch it as the wire backing fell off his head, and suddenly he let out a cracked sob of horror. He covered his face with a hand and backed away, hissing, "Demonic woman. Why do you seek to shame me?"

"I seek to know you," Christine insisted. She strode up to him and pulled at his hand, but he resisted her. "Angel… please. Erik."

"Here!" he spat, flinging their hands off of his face. "Is this what you wanted to see? _Freak! Monster! Living corpse!_ Now you see it; what do you think now? I shall prepare to take you back above ground."

He started to turn, but Christine grabbed at his elbow and turned him back towards her. He lowered his mismatched eyes and shook his head, letting out a quivering sigh. Christine examined the demolished part of his face. There were mountains and valleys of rough, hardened scar tissue. There was a black patch of dead flesh near his temple, and his eye was so sunken that it appeared to be an eyeball lying in a bare skull. His wig had come off with his mask, and he clutched it tightly. His real hair, Christine could see, was sparse and grey, just a few strands here and there on an otherwise bald skull lined with red threads of scarred flesh. His bloated lips dragged up too far on the marled side, as though someone had carved at his mouth. She could see now that his ear on that side was missing its exterior parts and was no more than a hole into his skull. He was white as a ghost on that side, except for the scarlet lines of his scars.

It was indeed hideous, Christine thought. She tried her best not to recoil. Instead she stared into his dark eye on his normal side and whispered,

"Angel of Music, why did you hide from me for so long?"

He shook his head. "You were never ready to know me."

He slid his mask and wig back on, smoothing the sleek black hair and clearing his throat. Christine blinked at him and asked,

"May I have some privacy to change into my nightgown?"

He blinked, seeming shocked. "You're staying?"

"I promised I would," Christine told him. "Didn't I? I'm a woman of my word."

"Woman," he whispered, and he bent down until his lips were beside her ear. "Beautiful creature, you sang perfectly tonight. Tomorrow morning, we practise. Goodnight."

She shut her eyes and felt a tingle go down her spine. She nodded. "Goodnight, Erik."

Ten minutes later, she'd washed off her stage makeup and changed into the beautiful nightgown he'd had set up for her. She lay in the sleigh bed beneath the plush blankets and curled onto her side. He was just across the hall from her - her Angel of Music. For so long, she'd thought he was one of God's messengers. She'd thought him not real at all. She'd been wrong. He was real. He was very real. He lived beneath the opera house in a mysterious lair. He was an architect, a builder, a composer, a singer, a violinist, and a teacher. He was so much. His face was destroyed. He was so strange, she thought.

And, yet, she wanted more of him. She wanted to practise music with him like she'd done for years. She wanted to do it in person, with the man she'd discovered. She shut her eyes and whispered,

"Papa, is this who you sent to me?"

She heard a door shut, and she thought he must have gone to bed. She trembled, thinking of him in the bedroom so near hers. This was absurd, she told herself. Being in this bizarre house in the opera's bowels, eating dinner with a mystifying disfigured man, sleeping in a nightgown he'd had waiting for her.

Raoul had been searching for her upstairs.

Christine shut her eyes and felt so tired she could hardly think. She only thought for a little while more, about how perplexing and peculiar this entire experience was, and then she drifted off to sleep in the Opera Ghost's lair.

**Author's Note: Please feed the writer by reviewing!**


	2. Sing For Me

Christine awoke to the sound of an organ playing. Her eyes sprang open, startled by the music. Heavy, booming chords plundered the morning air, breaking into a fugue with flitting high notes. Christine sat up and stared at the shut door that led to the corridor, wondering what time it was. She felt like she'd been asleep for days. She stretched like a cat, arching her back and yawning, and pulled herself out of the bed. She dragged the sheet and plush down blanket up around the pillows, which she straightened. Then she padded barefoot across the yellow-and-green Turkish rug towards the wash station that had been set up.

There was a pitcher of water, which she'd used the night before to wash off her stage makeup. She poured a little more over the wash rag and scrubbed anew at her face, then picked up the wooden toothbrush that had been set beside the basin. It looked new, still in a cardboard box with elaborate labeling. She pulled out the toothbrush and wet it, dipping it into the little porcelain container of tooth powder. She scrubbed at her teeth until they felt clean and fresh, and then she spit into the basin and poured herself a glass of water to rinse her mouth.

She made her way over to the boudoir by the yellow wall, marveling at the fact that all of this had been set up for _her_. He'd been waiting for her. He'd wanted her to come here. That should have frightened her, she thought. It ought to have made her quake with terror, thinking that he'd designed a bedroom for her before they'd ever met. But instead it was endearing, somehow. She wouldn't have been able to explain it to anyone at all. She tried to imagine telling Meg Giry about this - ' _Oh, Meg. My tutor is a man, a real man, and he's designed a beautiful bedroom for me in his underground lair, and -'_

Suddenly she choked out a laugh, nearly drowned out by the thudding of the organ, and she pondered how absurd this was. It was beyond ludicrous that she should be here, with him, in this bewildering place. Still, she felt compelled to sit on the pale green velvet stool at the boudoir and ready herself for whatever the day held.

There was an octagonal mirror before her, and Christine stared into her reflection as she gulped and reached for the beautiful silver comb lying on the wooden boudoir. She picked up the comb and then studied it; it was elaborately decorated with porcelain roses.

Roses.

She sighed and brought the comb up to her curls, neatening them with short strokes of the comb. She tamed the ringlets with the matching silver brush, and then she held up the hand mirror to study the back of her head. She looked fine, she thought, except for one problem. She was still in the elegant nightgown Erik had had waiting for her when she'd come down here. Her only other clothes were Elissa's bodice and her dressing gown. What was she meant to put on?

Her eyes flicked to the wardrobe beside the boudoir. Matching the sleigh bed, it was a distinctly feminine piece of furniture. Surely there wasn't… he wouldn't have clothes for her in there, would he? But he'd had the nightgown, and it had fit perfectly, and… Christine rose from the velvet stool at the boudoir and tremulously walked over to the wardrobe. She pulled open the doors quickly, as if she'd reveal a horror inside. But her face softened when she saw what was inside.

There was a piece of combination undergarments - a short-sleeved chemise built into drawers. It was bone white, with lace and embroidery around the neckline and hems. Christine stared at the garment for a long moment, thinking it was so strange that Erik would have purchased this for her. He'd bought her undergarments. She should be horrified, shouldn't she? Shouldn't she want to scream and demand he take her upstairs right this moment?

Instead, she pulled the garment out and stripped off her nightgown. She carefully placed the nightgown back on the mannequin in the corner of the room. She pulled on the combination undergarment and buttoned up the chemise. Next, she found stockings, whose ribbons she tied with trembling fingers. There was a corset that fit not-quite-perfectly, but it suited her purposes. How was he to know her _precise_ measurements after watching her through a mirror?

He'd bought her a corset.

Christine slid on the corset cover, petticoat, and bustle that she found in the wardrobe. Then she pulled out a gown from the wardrobe. She dragged her fingers over the coffee-brown ribs and pleats of the day dress' wool. The cream-coloured lace and buttons contrasted with the darker brown. Christine gulped, wondering just where Erik had gotten all of this. He'd said he could not dwell among society. How had he obtained the silver vanity set? The furniture itself? The beautiful clothing?

Christine dressed in the brown day dress and slid on her cream-coloured flat shoes from the night before. Erik had put black boots in the wardrobe, but they'd been too big for Christine's tiny feet.

The organ was still playing.

Christine made her way to the door and pulled it open, and suddenly the sound of the organ was much more vibrant. She looked to her right, to the sound of the music, and she walked out into the corridor. She stepped cautiously past a painting of a rosebush and then pulled open the double doors at the very end of the hall. Inside, she saw Erik sitting at an organ, his back to her. Christine did not recognise the fugue he was playing, but his skill was astounding. His fingers trailed over the keys, arcing and stretching into massive chords and flicking about on the right. Christine stepped closer to him, and her foot pressed against a squeaky floorboard. At the sound of the wooden floor creaking, the organ music abruptly stopped, and Erik whirled around where he sat in a full tuxedo.

He stared right at her, his masked half glittering white in the candlelight. His mismatched eyes flashed when he saw Christine clad in the clothes he'd obtained for her. He rose from the organ bench and stepped closer to Christine, saying quietly,

"Good afternoon."

"Afternoon?" Christine raised her eyebrows. "How long was I asleep?"

"Forgive me waking you with the organ," Erik said with a crooked little smile. "I thought it more polite than coming into your room."

Christine glanced at a wall clock and saw that it was a quarter past noon. She gasped and felt a twinge of hunger. As if he were in her mind, Erik approached her, took her elbow in his hand, and guided her towards the double doors.

"Luncheon, my dear?"

She wordlessly followed him down the corridor and back into the kitchen. She stood, helpless, and watched him move about, gathering up bread and cheese and cured meats on plates. Christine cleared her throat and said meekly,

"Thank you for the clothes. And for the warm bed."

"You are very welcome here," Erik said firmly. Christine chewed her lip and knitted her hands together before her.

"Erik?" she asked with caution, for she was still a bit afraid of him, "How long do you intend on me staying here?"

He brought the plates of food to the table and pulled out Christine's chair for her. She sat, and he did the same opposite her. He blinked at her, and she stared at his very pale eye, wondering again if he was blind there.

"You may stay as long as you please."

"Well, so long as Madame Giry knows I am safe," Christine mused, "I don't think it would be the worst thing if I stay today and practise with you. I look forward to our first lesson… together…"

"Hmm." Erik's bloated lips curled up a bit. His eyes glinted again, like they had when they'd seen her in the music room.

Christine ate her cured meat and cheese and bread as delicately and carefully as she could. She remembered fine dinners at aristocrats' houses with her father when they'd toured, and she tried to snare up those manners now. She sat with her back ramrod straight, sipped at her water politely, and finally set down the remaining crust of her bread. She realised Erik was watching her, and she asked him,

"When did you build my room, Erik?"

He hesitated. He drummed his fingers on the water glass before him and tipped his head like he always did. He admitted,

"Last year. I began planning on introducing myself in person. I thought the ruse had gone on long enough; you were growing too old to believe that the eidolon behind your lessons was truly an angel."

Christine felt more foolish and stupid than ever. She really _had_ believed he'd been an angel. Now she was made to feel like a child about it all.

"But why build me quarters down here?" Christine pressed him. "Why buy me clothes?"

"I had hoped, perhaps with blind yearning, that once you discovered my humanity, you might wish to spend time in my presence. After all, we'd spent so much time in your tutelage, and I… I suppose I dreamed…"

Christine lowered her eyes. She realised what had happened. He'd noticed that she'd grown up, that she'd become a woman. Too old to believe in angels. Too mature to keep up the illusion. And so he'd constructed a place for her in his world, the action of a man who wanted a woman beside him.

Did he _want_ her? Was there desire involved?

"Christine."

She looked up to see him examining her face, and he seemed uncertain. But then his jaw squared and his lips went into the best sort of line they could form.

"Come," he said. "Let us rehearse."

* * *

" _Ruhe sanft mein holdes Leben, schlafe, bis dein Glück erwacht._ "

Christine sang the Mozart aria as her Angel of Music accompanied her on the upright piano in his music room. She sang as beautifully as she could manage, her voice soaring through the space. As she continued, though, Erik's fingers fell from the piano keys, and he rubbed at the forehead of his unmasked side.

"You were sharp," he scolded. "Try again. Don't overreach on the ' _Leben_.'"

"Yes, Maestro," Christine said obediently. She cleared her throat as he played the introduction again. She sang once more and watched him nod his approval. As she worked her way through the end of the aria, she realised they'd been working for two hours now. Her voice was growing tired. Still, she pushed through the aria with perfectly tremulous notes. On her high notes, she took a little step back from where Erik sat on the piano, afraid to overwhelm him with her voice.

"Those notes were rushed," she heard him murmur, but she kept singing. Soon enough, he added, "Hold that note longer there."

He was disappointed in her. Christine's brow furrowed. She sang a high note with a crescendo, building her voice through the music room. She held a delicate string of eighth notes and let them dangle in the space.

" _Ruhe sanft mein holdes Leben, schlafe, bis dein Glück erwacht…"_

The melody repeated, and Christine sang through it until she reached the cadenza-like finish. Bouncing and flitting, she let her voice be light but full. She finally finished the piece, and Erik thundered through the end of the accompaniment on piano. His touch grew lighter as the instrumental bits grew gentle. When he ended the piece, he turned to Christine and told her,

"Your voice is magnificent these days."

"Thanks to your teaching," she told him. "It is only your tutelage that has given me this voice."

"On the contrary, my dear; you are a natural talent. You've only needed shaping and honing, but your voice is pure and lovely all on its own."

"Angel." Christine said the word on instinct, and his eyes flashed. He shook his head and rose from the piano bench.

"I am but a man, you'll recall."

"You told me that not many had viewed you that way," Christine reminded him. "What did you mean?"

His face hardened. "You saw what lies beneath my mask. How do you suppose people respond to such a hideous visage?"

Christine hesitated. "I suppose people have been cruel to you."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "That, my dear, is a ghastly understatement. Chains, beatings, whippings, coins thrown in my face by horrified spectators… the terror of it all, my dear, is not something you can imagine. Nor would I wish it on you to imagine it."

Christine felt a spike of something go through her. Was it pity? It ought to have been pity. But instead she found herself saying to Erik,

"You must be very powerful, to have survived all of that."

His eyebrows ticked upward. "Powerful. Hmm. Is that what you think of me? Not pathetic, or saddening, worthy of your pity and sympathy?"

Christine looked around the music room. "I see what you have made," she said, "and I know of your genius. I despise the thought of cruelty aimed at you, but… you are many things, Erik. _Pathetic_ is not one of them."

"Powerful," he said again, stepping closer to Christine. He hovered over her, so much taller, so broad-shouldered. She gazed up at his face and thought to herself that the unmarred side of it was terribly handsome. And he was so brilliant, she thought. She hated thinking of him being abused, of him being whipped or beaten. Her eyes suddenly watered, and Erik shook his head.

"Do not cry for me, my dear. Those days are long behind me. My time of late has consisted of music and construction. My thoughts have been consumed by… by…"

He trailed off, but she knew what he meant. _By you._ She reached out with a trembling hand and touched her fingertips to his chest. She stared at his white shirt with its black pearlescent buttons, its crisp pleats. She stared at his black waistcoat, and then she raised her gaze. His chest rose and fell rather quickly beneath her hand, and when she stared into his eyes again, she saw pain there.

"Christine," he whispered. "How I have longed for you to be here."

"Well," she pointed out, "Here I am."

"Christine," he said again. He took another step to her until they were standing very close indeed. She tightened her fingers on his chest, and he asked suddenly, "Do you play Piquet?"

Christine sucked in air. She knew what the game was, at least in theory. But she had to admit,

"I don't know the rules. I'm sorry."

"I could teach you," Erik offered, and Christine grinned broadly.

"You'll wind up having taught me everything I know."

He stiffened before her. He looked down into her eyes and marveled, "Beautiful creature… the things I wish to teach you."

Christine shivered just a little. She found herself being guided out of the music room and into a parlour with pale blue wallpaper and two armchairs facing one another. It was chilly in here, and Christine shuddered as she sank into a chair. Suddenly a warm woolen blanket was being pushed into her hands, and Christine gasped down at it. It was grey and simple, but as she wound it around her shoulders, it cradled her in coziness.

"Thank you," she told Erik. He sat down, and before Christine knew what was happening, a deck of cards had appeared in his palm. Sleight of hand, she told herself. He was an illusionist. She smiled warmly as he sat in the seat opposite her and explained,

"This is a Piquet deck. Sevens through tens, face cards, and aces. Each match consists of six deals, and the player with the most points wins."

Christine nodded. She spent the next twenty minutes learning the intricacies of the game, and then she and Erik began to play. He beat her badly in the first three deals, but she won the fourth. He won the fifth and the sixth, and he was declared the winner by far. Christine huffed, pulling her blanket around herself more tightly.

"I am not an adept card player. Madame Giry says it's an idle use of time; if she catches us at cards, she orders us to practise ballet."

"But you are not a ballet dancer anymore." Erik tipped his head. "You are a singer, and you're to be a _prima donna._ "

"Oh, am I?" Christine scoffed. "I can hardly take La Carlotta's place, Erik."

"You have twelve times the talent of that unpolished, ungifted wench." Erik's voice was harsh and angry. Christine bristled at his change of mood. She'd made him cross. She pinched her lips and said softly,

"I don't think Mssrs. André and Firmin will be as enthusiastic about me."

"They will be once I've convinced them that promoting your career is in their best interest," Erik replied. Christine sighed.

"You wish to make a star of me."

"You were born to be a star," he said in return. He scooped up the cards and held them in his hand, flicking his fingers. The cards disappeared. He gazed at her and mused, "You are not frightened down here with me."

"I should be," Christine said, "but… no, I am not."

"I do not terrify you." Erik noted. Christine shook her head no. Erik rose from his chair, and Christine rose with him. It was evening now, but it was impossible to tell this far below the opera house. Erik pursed his distended lips and huffed a breath through his nostrils.

"You speak of Madame Giry. You speak of André and Firmin. I wrote to them early this morning, promising your safety. But perhaps I ought to take you back now. They'll be missing you."

Something tugged at Christine's chest. She wasn't ready to leave, she thought. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders more tightly than ever and said softly to Erik,

"I suppose so."

"You seem less than eager to return to the opera house." He tipped his head. His wig shifted a little. Christine cleared her throat and said,

"I'd rather stay and practise some more."

"Madame Giry insisted that I have you back by bedtime tonight," Erik told her. " _Not two nights,_ she said. _That goes too far._ "

"She knows you," Christine breathed. "She knows you well enough to speak directly to you?"

"She knows me better than just about anyone else," nodded Erik. "And I know as well as you how strict she is. It is time for us to return you to your dressing room, Christine."

Her stomach ached, and she glanced over her shoulder as though she'd be able to see the sleigh bed and the beautiful nightgown again. Her room. The room he'd made for her.

"You're a real man," she heard herself murmur.

"Christine," he said gently, and when she turned back to him, he asked, "May I sing for you before I take you back?"

"Oh, yes!" she gushed. "Yes, please. Please sing for me."

He smirked a little. He took a step closer to Christine and began to sing a melody she did not recognise.

" _Alluring beauty, look upon the eyes that trace you up and down and inside out. See that I can scarcely tear my gaze from you and you alone…"_

His singing was slow, beautiful, and Christine found herself drawing near to him. She put her hand on his chest again, feeling him take deep breaths as he sang.

" _Let my arms enfold you as you lose yourself to my adoration…"_

Christine turned on instinct, facing away from him, and she felt his arms snare around her. One of his hands went to her waist and the other rubbed up and down her arm. Her mouth fell open, her head tipped back, and she realised she wanted this man. She wasn't certain what she wanted, but she wanted _him_.

" _Let me be the key that unlocks your door_ ," Erik sang, and Christine melted back against him. " _For it's you I long for - you and nothing more_."

He stopped singing then, and they just stood there, Christine with the warm grey blanket around her shoulders and Erik hunched over her, touching her in a way she ought not have let him do. She turned her face a little, and he was there, the unmarred half of him staring down at her. She reached up and cupped his jaw in her hand, and he let out a quivering breath.

"Beautiful child; I'll destroy you," he warned, and she nodded. She knew this was leading somewhere it shouldn't. She stepped away from him, forward a few steps. When she turned back to face him, Erik was taking long, deep breaths and his eyes were glittering.

"Come," he said, holding out his hand. "It is time to take you back upstairs."

* * *

Christine carried her _Hannibal_ costume parts and her dressing gown in a bundle in one hand, holding Erik's gloved hand with the other. She let him guide her onto the seat of the gondola, and she put the bundle in her lap. She looked over her shoulder at his house and asked,

"Will you let me come here again?"

"You are always welcome here," he told her. "Always."

Christine glanced down at herself as he began to punt the boat across the lake. She asked worriedly, "How shall I get the clothes back to you?"

He snorted behind her. "To whom else would I give them? I procured them for you, my dear. Keep them."

"I saw four dresses in that wardrobe," Christine noted. "I should have taken the others."

"Greedy creature," he said, and when she turned, worried she'd angered him, he curled up the good half of his mouth and said, "I tease you."

"Oh." Christine marveled as the portcullis rose, as Erik glided them beneath it. They reached the far side of the shore, and Christine thought to herself that it was still a long way back to the dressing room. Indeed, the crossing through the tunnel seemed to take forever, and the lantern Erik held only illuminated a little ways before them. Frightened of the darkness, Christine found herself clutching tightly onto Erik's hand. When at last they reached the stairs, he warned her,

"Watch your step. I do not wish for you to fall."

"Yes, Maestro." Christine climbed with him. And climbed. And climbed. After what felt like an eternity, she was breathless in her corset and needed to stop. She pulled on Erik's hand and said airily, "Just one moment. Please."

"You must build up your stamina," Erik cautioned her. "Your singing will suffer if your lungs are weak."

"Says the man without a corset," japed Christine. He laughed a little and came down a few steps to where she was. She suddenly found herself pressed up against the stone wall with him before her, over her, and she stared up at him in the glow of the lantern. Was he going to kiss her? He bent down a little, and she smelled leather and paper and ink upon him. His embroidered black cape brushed her shoulder, and she moved her eyes to his lips. Was he going to kiss her? It felt like he was going to kiss her.

"Erik," she whispered, reaching for his shirt like she'd done a few times now. He sucked in air hard and asked,

"Ready to keep climbing?"

"Yes," she mumbled, though she still hadn't quite caught her breath. It turned out that they weren't too far from the top now anyway, and when at last Christine saw the dull glow of her dressing room mirror at the top of the stairs, she let out a little noise.

"Keep this entryway hidden," Erik said, and she felt the veil of a threat there, as though something bad would happen to her if she revealed the way he'd taken her to the bowels of the opera house. She nodded up at him and promised,

"It is a secret. A secret between you and I."

"You'll be playing the Countess in _Il Muto_ ," Erik said matter-of-factly. "We'll rehearse the part beginning tomorrow."

"Here in the dressing room?" Christine asked. "You'll come out, won't you?"

He hesitated. "We'll see."

They reached the top of the stairs, and Christine paused before opening the mirror-door. She looked up at Erik's masked face and said seriously,

"Thank you. For everything."

"This is not goodbye," he informed her, but she just shrugged and said,

"I still feel compelled to thank you."

He shifted where he stood, as though there were something he wanted to do but couldn't. His throat bobbed beneath his cravat, and he held up the lantern a little higher, bathing his mask in shimmering golden light. He whispered,

"Until tomorrow, then."

"Angel," she replied, desperate not to leave him. Then, remembering that he was corporeal and of Earth, not sent from Heaven, she murmured, "Erik."

"Go, child." His voice was harder now. She nodded as he pushed the mirror-door open, and she scurried into the dressing room. The mirror shut behind her, and when she whirled around, she expected to see his masked face there. But all she saw was her own reflection. He was gone.

**Author's Note: Thank you so very, very much for feedback on this story.**


	3. Dessert

"Christine!" Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny rounded a corner and nearly ran straight into Christine. Her eyes went round and wide as she stared up at him and stammered,

"R-Raoul."

"Where have you _been?_ " He tossed his hands up and said, almost exasperatedly, "Everyone has been searching for you since last night! Madame Giry said you were safe, but even under pressure, she would not reveal your whereabouts. Messrs. Firmin and André received notes from the so-called _Opera Ghost_ , saying that you were in his care, but no one knew what that meant. Christine, what the blazes is going on?"

Christine balked. She took a few steps back from Raoul and said firmly,

"I was fine. I was safe and everything was fine."

"But where were you?" Raoul pressed. Christine narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

"With all due respect, Monsieur le Vicomte," she said sharply, "you and I spent one summer together when we were children. I scarcely know you now. Am I obliged to divulge my activitiesto you?"

Raoul's eyebrows ticked up. "Forgive me, Miss Daaé. I was merely concerned about your wellbeing."

"I think perhaps you are disappointed that I was not present for our planned dinner," Christine suggested. She tipped her head, which made her think of Erik. She realised suddenly that she wanted her tutor, her teacher. She wanted to be back in the dungeon lair with him again. But instead she was here, with the boy who had fetched her scarf out of the sea.

"Christine!"

She whirled at the sound of her name to see Meg Giry dashing towards her. Clad in a practice tutu and pale pink slippers, Meg came running down the corridor. She was pink-cheeked, her mouth hanging open in shock.

"Christine! We were all so worried!"

"Oh, Meg. I was fine," Christine said, feeling her cheeks flush. Meg trotted right up to her, ignoring Raoul, and put her hands on Christine's arms. She looked Christine up and down and demanded,

"Where did you get this dress?"

"I was with… with my teacher," Christine said finally. "It's a gift. From him."

"Your _teacher?_ " snapped Raoul, and Christine glared at him.

"Yes. I was perfectly safe with my teacher."

"So you spent the night with… with this so called _Opera Ghost?_ " Raoul demanded, and Christine crossed her arms over her chest. She tipped her chin up and said,

"As I said, Monsieur le Vicomte, I scarcely think it is your business where I was."

"It is my business as the patron of this opera; our lead soprano from the production of _Hannibal_ went missing," Raoul said back. Meg put her hands up between Raoul and Christine and said gently,

"Monsieur le Vicomte, we were all very concerned about Christine. I'm sure that in due time, she'll tell us more information. _Maman_ said she was safe, that she'd received a letter confirming Christine was fine. In the meantime… Christine, Messrs. André and Firmin wish to speak with you. They said to send you to them as soon as you came back. It's urgent, I think."

Christine's stomach sank. She was about to be sacked from the opera, she thought. She was about to be told to go make her own way in Paris. The directors would be furious to discover that she'd spent the night and most of the next day in the company of her Angel of Music.

"Monsieur le Vicomte." Christine curtsied formally to Raoul. "Meg."

She walked away from them, leaving both of them terribly confused.

* * *

"Miss Daaé. Do come in." Monsieur André beckoned for Christine to enter the office he shared with Monsieur Firmin. Christine hesitated, but finally crossed the threshold and walked into the office. Her breath trembled in her nostrils as she thought to herself that this was the moment she was to be turned out. But Monsieur André shut the door behind her and gestured warmly to an armchair before a fireplace.

"Please, do sit, Miss Daaé," he said, and Christine thought distantly that that was not the tone of a man who was about to sack a young woman. She nervously sat in the chair and folded her hands in her lap. Monsieur Firmin said broadly,

"You were a triumph last night, Miss Daaé. An absolute triumph. Of course, we were all terribly worried when we couldn't find you after the performance, but -"

"But we did receive notes." Monsieur André cleared his throat. "Apparently you were just fine, which is good news for us, because we are most anxious to have you singing again for the Opéra Populaire, mademoiselle."

Christine blinked. They actually wanted her to sing? Again? She swallowed hard and whispered,

"My teacher said I did well. The applause…"

"Yes, mademoiselle; you were stunning," gushed Monsieur Firmin. "And the public is itching for a new voice at the Opéra Populaire. That's why we have decided to cast you in the role of the Countess in the new production of _Il Muto_."

Christine's eyes went very wide indeed. "Not La Carlotta?"

Messrs. Firmin and André eyed one another and shifted on their feet. Finally Monsieur Firmin said, "La Carlotta has been the _prima donna_ of this opera for… well, for a very long time. Unlike fine wines, which are better with age, singers, well, they…"

"They go stale. Rather like bread," clipped Monsieur André. "We've inherited an opera in need of something new, something appealing and fresh. And we believe we have found that in you, Miss Daaé."

"And how did La Carlotta take this news?" Christine asked, wincing as she prepared herself for the answer she knew was coming.

"She… says she will be on the morning train to Florence," said Monsieur Firmin. He flicked his eyes to Monsieur André and said just a bit concernedly, " _Signor_ Piangi has… erm… he's agreed to stay."

"You're losing La Carlotta because you've cast me as the Countess?" Christine's chest hammered. Wasn't this precisely what her Angel of Music wanted? Shouldn't she be happy? But she felt afraid; what if she botched the part? She shook her head and whispered, "I need to begin rehearsing this role immediately. My teacher and I will need to begin work on the Countess' lines at once."

"Yes. Well, all of that can begin tomorrow," said Monsieur André. "Tonight, I think, a good rest. Now that you're our leading soprano, you needn't sleep in the ballet dormitories."

"But I haven't anywhere else to…" Christine stopped. That wasn't strictly true. She _did_ have somewhere else to go. She had a bedroom all of her own. Her Angel had his piano and his organ and his violin down there. She could… could she? Christine sighed and licked her lips. "Messieurs, I am profoundly grateful for the opportunity to play the Countess. I won't let you down. You may rely on me."

"We know, Miss Daaé. We have faith." Monsieur Firmin went to the door to open it, and Christine felt that she'd been summarily dismissed. She rose and curtsied before walking out of the office. She was already in the corridor when Monsieur Firmin called after her, "Tell the Opera Ghost we wish no harm on either side, and that his salary has been paid."

Christine whirled around, and Monsieur Firmin shot her a very meaningful look before closing the office door.

* * *

"What do you _mean_ , you're going somewhere else? This is your home!" Meg's voice was shrill with frantic confusion. "You and I have shared a room since we were -"

"I have a new role to play," Christine interjected, packing her old, worn carpet bag with her meagre belongings. She tossed in a comb and a mirror, even though Erik had bought her new and better ones. She pulled out her old blue dress from her wardrobe and folded it, stuffing it into the carpet bag.

Meg suddenly seized her arm, and Christine huffed as she met her friend's eyes. Meg's gaze welled with heavy tears as she whispered,

"Christine, I'm so worried over you. Worried sick. _Maman_ insists that you're safe with him - with the Phantom of the Opera. But how could he possibly be safe? And is he really your teacher?"

"Meg." Christine breathed a quivering sigh and said, "I don't think I ought to reveal too much more. He would be displeased with me."

"See? There. He'd be displeased with you. And what would he do to you, Christine, if he were displeased?" Meg squeezed just a little too hard at Christine's arm, and Christine wrenched away as she insisted,

"He'd never hurt me."

"Are you certain about that?" Meg put her hands on her hips.  
"Quite certain. If you see Madame Giry tonight, tell her that I am moving into new quarters. She'll know what I mean," Christine said. Meg looked more confused than ever, and she swiped roughly at the tears in her eyes. But Christine just nodded and whispered, "See you tomorrow. Rehearsals."

"Christine, don't go," Meg begged, but Christine kissed her friend's cheek and stroked her blonde hair as she said,

"I need to be with him. With my Angel of Music."

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the ballet dormitories.

When she reached her dressing room, she lit an oil lamp that was sitting on the boudoir and carried it by its handle. She walked over to the mirror, looking back to be certain no one had opened the dressing room door, and she pulled the mirror-door open. Beyond was inky black, and Christine hesitated for a moment before stepping in. But then she adjusted her hold on her carpet bag and pulled the door shut behind her, holding her lamp out to illuminate the steps.

Down, down, down she went on the endless staircase, until her feet were sore and her skirts were dirty. Finally she reached the bottom of the winding staircase and came to the long, bleak tunnel. She felt terrified as she followed the little bit of light from her lamp, and things got even worse when a rat went scampering by ahead of her.

Then she heard the footsteps.

Christine froze, nearly dropping her lantern as she tried to breathe. She could hear someone walking towards her in the tunnel, but there was no light. She chomped her lip so hard she tasted blood, and she called out,

"Whoever you are, once the Opera Ghost finds out that you're here, you're going to be in very deep -"

She locked up again, because suddenly the glint of a white mask came into view in her lamplight. She gasped as she realised that it was Erik approaching her, and she asked disbelievingly,

"How did you know I was here?"

"I have alarms," he said simply, nearing her, "to warn me when any entrance into my passageways has been breached. I knew the moment you opened the mirror, and I came at once. I… well, let's just say I'm glad to see _you_."

He pushed something into his sleeve, and Christine furrowed her brow. Was that the lasso everyone always talked about? The Punjab Lasso that the Phantom was reputed to use on enemies? Christine gulped. Erik reached out and took her lantern in one hand and her carpet bag in the other. He turned and started leading her through the tunnel, his slight limp evident.

"Not that I am in the slightest bit displeased to see you," he began, "but I must ask what you're doing here so soon after leaving."

"Well," Christine said hesitantly, as they came out the end of the tunnel and onto the shore of the lake. She stared at Erik in the candlelight and told him, "The owners want me to sing the Countess in _Il Muto_. La Carlotta, I suppose because of the great offence, has left. They told me I could leave the ballet dormitories, and I thought I had nowhere else to go, but then I considered…"

"You thought of your butter yellow room with its sleigh bed," Erik murmured. He was quiet and still for a long moment, and then he said, "You can, of course, stay with me for as long as you like. I'll escort you up for rehearsals and performances. There are several passages that lead to my home, all of them carefully concealed. I'll trust those secrets to you."

"Erik…" Christine licked her lip and tasted the blood from having bitten it so hard. She whispered, "I am relieved to be back here."

"I am relieved that you are singing the role of the Countess," he clipped. "Messrs. André and Firmin are not complete fools, then. And what of the handsome young Vicomte who asked you to dinner after _Hannibal?_ "

"I…" Christine swallowed hard again. "He pries. He is nosy and pushy."

"You do not care deeply for him?" Erik gestured to the boat, and Christine climbed in. He handed her her carpet bag and the lantern, and she put them at her feet as she said over her shoulder,

"I do not like him at all. He is not the boy I remember."

Erik began to punt the gondola across the lake, and when they came to the portcullis, he asked,

"Have you had dinner tonight?"

"Erm…" Christine wanted to dine with him, but she'd eaten in the ballet dormitories. "I had soup and bread already. Thank you."

Erik scoffed. "I know what meagre portions they give the dancers to keep your bodies lithe and lean. You're probably famished."

Christine laughed a little and teased, "Something small wouldn't go amiss."

"I've just the thing, my dear," Erik said smoothly. "I think you'll quite enjoy it."

Christine shivered at that. She shut her eyes and thought to herself that she shouldn't want to be here, that she should want a flat of her own like La Carlotta had. She should want to live independently in Paris as the new singer at the Opéra Populaire. Instead she found herself delighted to be back in this gondola. What was the matter with her? Were Meg and Raoul right? Had she gone mad?

They reached the far shore of the lake, and Erik helped Christine out of the boat. She walked with him up to the door of his bizarrely constructed house, and when he opened the door, she stepped inside and breathed in deeply. She smelled baking, the warm smell of cooked dough.

"Erik," she said, turning to him, "What have you made?"

"My very favourites," he said lightly. "Come."

He set down her carpet bag and hung his fedora on the rack near the door. His cape, too, he removed and hung. He walked with Christine into the kitchen, and once they were in there, she saw what he meant. There were two puff pastries filled with luscious-looking whipped cream sitting on the wooden countertop. Christine gasped a little and asked,

"You baked these?"

"I was… erm… bored." Erik's voice was strange then. Christine frowned. Why had he made two of them? And he didn't seem like the baking type. Had he been secretly hoping that, on some off chance, she might return to his lair tonight? Had he been wishing for Christine's reappearance? She marveled at the pâte à choux sitting on the countertop, and her stomach grumbled. The weak beef soup and little bit of crusty bread she'd been given in the ballet dormitory had not filled her belly properly. She was exceedingly thin, just like the other dancers, because she'd been half-starved since childhood on a ballerina's diet.

"You must try one," Erik said, and Christine's eyes locked on the choux à la crème. She started walking towards the pastries, but when she reached for one, Erik beat her to it and said quickly, "Allow me."

She paused, confused about what he meant to do. But then he held the pastry up to her lips and whispered, "Eat."

Christine licked her lips. She leaned forward and took a little bite of the choux à la crème, and then she shut her eyes and savoured the taste and texture. He'd perfected the difficult choux, the light dough needed for the cream puffs. His cream was just sweet enough, thick but fluffy inside the dessert. Christine moaned a little, desperate for more. She heard Erik puff out a breath, and then he murmured again,

"Eat, Christine."

She took another bite, and this time, she opened her eyes and met his gaze. She locked eyes with Erik and stared straight into his mask, into the pale eye she suspected couldn't see right. She felt his dark eye boring into her, saw his bloated lips part in wonder, as she chewed and swallowed her bite. She nodded and whispered,

"It's so good."

"Your mouth," he choked out, and Christine chuckled a little as she licked and felt that there was cream upon her lips. Erik audibly sucked in air through his clenched teeth, and the hand holding the Pâte à Choux trembled fiercely. Christine realised something then.

He _wanted_ her. She stood before him, thrumming with her own excitement, and she whispered softly,

"Erik."

"Would you like some more?" he responded, and Christine leaned forward and took a third bite of the dessert he held out to her. She dragged her tongue over her lips and hummed,

"It's delicious, Erik."

"You should go to bed," he said in a quaking voice, pulling the choux à la crème from Christine's mouth and setting the remains back on the counter. He told her softly, "We must begin rehearsing _Il Muto_ tomorrow."

Christine stared right at him and asked quietly, "Shall I wear the nightgown you bought for me?"

He tipped his head, his wig shifting a little. He said nothing. Christine nodded and turned to walk away, dragging her fingertips along the edge of the countertop.

"Thank you for dessert, Erik," she said. He stood behind her, silent and unmoving, as she made her way out into the corridor and down towards her yellow bedroom.

By the time she'd changed out of her clothes, she was shaking a little, and it wasn't from the chill of the dungeon. Erik had fed her sweets; he'd come looking for her in the tunnel. He was so mysterious, and yet she felt like she knew him after years under his tutelage. Her Angel was a man, a man who craved her. That much was evident. Did she want him back? She supposed she wanted _something._

A kiss, perhaps. Maybe just one kiss, Christine thought. Just to know what it felt like. She thought, as she pulled on her beautiful silk nightgown, that she should be repulsed by Erik's face. But she'd been patently unafraid of him when she'd unmasked him. All she felt was disdain for those who had mistreated him over it.

One kiss, she thought again. What would one kiss feel like? She'd never been kissed, not really. She and Meg had kissed one another's lips briefly one time on a dare from Sabine, another of the ballet girls. They'd giggled and said it had felt silly and foolish. But that hadn't been a real kiss. Christine tried to imagine kissing Raoul. He was haughty and bossy, she thought, and she didn't want a kiss from him. But Erik was warm and kind to her. He was gentle with her. He adored her; she could tell. He'd built her a room and bought her all sorts of things. He'd baked a pastry for her when he had no proof she'd come back. He'd fed her cream…

"Christine?"

She jolted at the sound of her name outside the bedroom door. Christine dashed over and flung it open, and Erik seemed surprised to see her standing there in her nightgown. She stared up into his unmatched eyes and panted just a little. Erik's throat bobbed, and he said breezily,

"I will wake you in the morning to practise. The role of the Countess demands great vocal gymnastics, and you will need to be diligent with…"

He trailed off then, and Christine could see that with every passing word, a little piece of him had crumbled. Finally, he stood there in silence, his fists flexing and releasing at his sides. He mumbled,

"I'll wake you. Goodnight, Christine."

He turned to go, to walk away, but Christine snatched at the sleeve of his jacket and yanked him back. He whirled, shocked by her gall, and his marred lips parted. Christine took a tremulous breath and whispered,

"Just once. To say goodnight."

He shook his head, apparently confused. His good brow furrowed and his light eye flashed beneath his mask. Christine reached up and gamely cupped his uncovered jaw in her hand. She reached up onto her tiptoes and pulled him down a little, muttering,

"Just one kiss to say goodnight, Erik?"

"Christine." He had her face in his hands suddenly, and his fingers snaked into her curls. He closed the gap between them and pressed his mouth to hers so quickly that she wondered if he was afraid she'd change her mind. His mask scraped along her cheek. His swollen, scarred lips crashed against Christine's in a firm kiss, and she distantly thought she probably still tasted like his choux à la crème. Could he taste her? She couldn't quite taste him. Very much on instinct, she swept her tongue along his bottom lip, dragging over the rivulets of bloated tissue there.

Erik ripped himself from Christine and staggered backwards, both of his eyes glittering. He seemed utterly bewildered by what had just happened, and at last he whispered,

"Do I need to take you back upstairs?"

"No." Christine shook her head. "No, Maestro. You'll wake me in the morning to rehearse."

"Christine." He sounded so pained then that she felt abruptly sorry for him, like there was something else she needed to do. She also felt strange herself; a tingle ripped from her scalp down her spine and back again. She felt dull heat between her legs, and she realised at once that she did want him. She did want Erik.

"Christine." He just kept saying her name, incanting it as he would a prayer. He shut his eyes and squared his jaw, and he finally whispered, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Erik." Christine watched him turn to go to his own room, and once he'd shut his door, she closed the door from her room to the corridor. She turned around and leaned back against the door, surveying the sleigh bed and the boudoir and the wardrobe full of dresses that Erik had bought just for her. She should be appalled, she thought. She should be horrified that he'd done all of this whilst pretending to be her angel.

But she forgave his deception, and she'd wanted to come back tonight. She wanted her Angel of Music, the man who had been teaching her. She wanted to kiss him again and again, and as her heart beat a frantic tattoo inside her chest, she wondered how she was meant to manage sleep, much less rehearsal in the morning.

**Author's Note: I apologize for update delays; this weekend is a holiday in my country and I haven't had a chance to write. More regular updates will be coming very soon. Please do review if you get a chance. Thank you so much.**


	4. Do You Still Want Me?

Christine blinked her eyes open, expecting to hear thudding music from the organ. But there was nothing but silence, weighty and dark. She frowned, her hands folded over her stomach. She sat up slowly and looked around the butter yellow bedroom, illuminated by only a few candles. She had precisely no idea what time it was. She felt like she'd slept for ages. Surely she needed to be up and rehearsing by now. She heaved herself out of the bed and pulled the blankets up, and she made her way over to the washing table. She scrubbed at her face and teeth for a few minutes, and then fear struck her through as she stared into the mirror.

What if her Angel of Music was sitting in the music room, fuming that Christine was not yet awake? What if he thought she was lazy? More than once, he'd taunted her for tiring, or scolded her for being late. What if, right now, Erik was sitting at his organ, scowling, waiting for Christine to finally show up?

Without even putting slippers on her feet, Christine dashed towards the door of the bedroom and rushed out into the corridor. She made her way quickly to the music room and burst into it, but the sconce on the wall illuminated the room just enough for Christine to see that it was empty. Christine stood in silence for a moment, confused. Erik wasn't here. But if he wasn't here, then…

"Christine?"

She whirled around to see Erik in the corridor, and she realised his bedroom door was ajar. He stood before her in a nightshirt and a black velvet dressing gown, his mask on, but his head bare. He'd rushed out here, she thought. She blinked at him and saw that he was bleary-eyed; she'd awakened him.

"I am early, I think," Christine said, and Erik coughed out a little laugh.

"Early," he repeated, nodding. "It is half-past four; did you want to start our lesson right now?"

"I…" Christine felt ashamed of her eagerness. But she finally gulped and said, "There's no clock in my room. I had no idea what time it was."

"Ah. A gross oversight on my part," Erik mused. "My apologies. I promise to obtain a clock for you."

"I suppose we ought to go back to bed for a few hours," Christine suggested, remembering the way they'd kissed the night before. She could still taste his bloated, scarred lip beneath her tongue. Christine touched at her own lips and murmured, "I'm so sorry for waking you."

"Christine," he whispered, and he held out his hand. Every time he did this, Christine thought, she wound up taking his hand and being guided somewhere by him. This time, she put her fingers into his palm, and he pulled her out into the corridor and towards his bedroom. Christine froze on the threshold to his room. She pulled her hand from his and shook her head, eyeing the rumpled bed.

"Do you mean to ruin me, Erik?" she asked, feeling hurt. But he just tipped his head like he always did, and he said gently,

"I had meant to hold you. That's all."

"Oh." Christine slowly followed him towards the bed, feeling a bit like prey being led into a trap by a predator. She let him help her up onto the high, dark bed, let him pull the warm blankets over her, let him crawl in beside her. He lay on his side, mask down, facing Christine, and she edged a little closer to him, seeking his presence. She got so close that their breath mingled, and she finally whispered,

"Will you take the mask off?"

"No," he said tartly. "I'd prefer to keep it on."

"Yes, Maestro," Christine replied. She cuddled further into the blankets and rested her head on the pillow, her curls unfurling around her. Erik stared at her and tentatively reached out a hand, placing it on Christine's shoulder. She could feel the tremble in his skin through her nightgown, and she found herself asking,

"Will you tell me a story?"

"What sort of story, my dear?" asked Erik. His hand rubbed a little at Christine's shoulder, and she studied his asymmetrical eyes. Christine sighed.

"Tell me where you were before you built this place."

Erik blinked. "Persia. Before here, it was Persia."

Christine's breath hitched. "And what did you do in Perisa?"

Erik shut his eyes. "Those days are long behind me. I have been here since the opera house's construction. My life is here."

"Erik?" Christine said softly, and he opened his eyes. She stared at the very pale one and asked, "Can you see?"

"The masked eye is no good," Erik told her. "It's always been blind; I am used to it now."

Christine nodded against the pillow. She wondered distantly why there was a hole in Erik's mask for the blind eye, why he didn't just cover it. But she didn't ask that question. Instead, she reached to touch Erik's chest, and she heard her own voice whisper, "I wish you would kiss me again."

"I told you that I won't ruin you," Erik mumbled. "I'm just lying here with you. That's all."

Christine was quiet for a long time, just gazing into Erik's eyes. She finally let her eyes shut, feeling tired again. She started to drift off to sleep, feeling comfortable near Erik. Soon enough, she heard his voice humming a familiar French folk tune, and she melted against the pillow, falling deeply asleep.

She awakened to the feel of his lips on her cheek, and Christine slowly opened her eyes, sucking in air. He was hovering above her, kissing her face with little pecks on her forehead, her cheekbones, the tip of her nose. Christine moaned softly and turned her face, catching him. Erik grunted softly as his mouth met Christine's, as their lips pressed together.

He had an arm on either side of her and bent down further to push his mouth onto hers. Christine whimpered onto his lips, opening her mouth just a little. Erik let out another low noise and then swept his tongue between Christine's lips, brushing it against hers and then dragging it over the roof of her mouth. Christine gasped and tossed her head back against the pillow, arching her back up towards Erik. He stared down at her and looked completely shocked, though he'd started all of this. Christine whispered frantically,

"Erik… please…"

"Please what?" His lips were more swollen than ever, shaking badly along with his breath. Christine seized his right wrist and said firmly,

"Touch me just a little bit."

"Christine…" Erik rolled down onto his side, still facing Christine, and he demanded, "You want me to touch you?"

"I… yes. I feel desire," Christine said somewhat proudly. She'd heard the other ballet girls talking about dalliances with wealthy opera attendees or patrons. They'd _wanted_ the men, and the men had _wanted_ them back. Christine knew that Erik wanted her. She also knew that she wanted him back. So why couldn't they have a dalliance? Why couldn't he touch her?

"Christine." Erik purred her name again, and then his right hand crept under the blankets and fisted her nightgown. He pulled the material upward until his fingers grasped bare flesh on her thigh. Christine gasped at the feel of his hand on her, at the way his fingertips dragged upward. She wore no undergarments with this nightgown. Why she hadn't put even drawers on the night before, she wouldn't have been able to say. But now Erik's hand worked its way up her thigh until his long fingers paused at her hip.

"Christine." He was always saying her name, she thought. He was always saying it like it was a holy incantation upon his lips. She leaned forward and kissed him hard, and he groaned just a little. She wanted more. She wanted to be touched. She was aching between her legs; she was throbbing and hot and wet. But when Erik pulled his mouth from Christine's, he told her,

"I kissed you to wake you. We need to practise a scene from _Il Muto._ "

"Maestro," Christine breathed. She reached to cover his hand with hers at her hip and begged him, "Erik, please don't stop."

"If I don't stop here, I won't stop at all," he warned her. "Come. We must practise now."

With that he heaved himself out of the bed and snapped at Christine,

"Go get dressed."

* * *

" _Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah…_ "

"Flat!" Erik banged his fists roughly on the keys. "Christine, you're flat on that D every - _single_ \- time!"

"I'm sorry, Angel!" Christine backed away from the piano. "I didn't warm up my upper range properly, and -"

"Excuses!" Erik whirled around on his piano bench. He yanked himself to his feet and began to pace the room. He dragged his fingertips over his wig and said exasperatedly,

"You've been singing a high D for years, Christine; I don't understand why you can't -"

"I'll try harder, Angel!" Christine said fearfully. He turned toward her, stalking like a wraith as he jabbed a finger out and exclaimed,

"My name is Erik! I'm not your little pretend angel; I'm a _man!_ I am your teacher. And you _will_ sing that note properly, because I know you can do it."

Christine shuddered where she stood, feeling so afraid after all the rumours. He'd killed people, they said. The Opera Ghost was a fearsome spectre, and he stood before her now, yelling at her for being flat on the D. Christine pursed her lips and nodded. She cleared her throat as Erik flipped out the tails of his jacket and sat back down. He put his fingers to the piano and played a few chords. Then Christine came in with her line.

" _Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Time I tried to get a better better half. Poor fool, he doesn't know, ho-ho-ho-ho-ho…_ "

She kept singing, and this time Erik let her go on and on. Finally she got to the end of the scene. Erik thundered out the last chords and then finally turned his head and nodded.

"Better. You must sing at your best now; you're to be the _prima donna._ "

"Well. For now all I've done is send La Carlotta away and taken the role of the Countess. I shall do my best," Christine promised. She shifted on her feet, dragging her fingers over the green velvet of her walking dress. "I am so sorry to have disappointed you."

"I lost my temper with you," Erik sighed. He adjusted his mask a little and whispered down to the piano keys, "You deserve nothing but kindness."

She remembered the way he'd woken her in his bed with kisses, the way his hand had worked its way up her thigh beneath her nightgown. She wanted him badly all of a sudden; she wanted to see his face again.

"Erik," she said hesitantly, "Will you please take the mask off?"

"Why?" He glared at her. "Why do you insist on witnessing my deformity?"  
"Erik, I want to see _you_ ," Christine insisted. She walked over to where Erik sat at the piano bench and curled her fingers around the molded nose of his mask. She paused then, waiting for permission. Erik just shut his eyes and whispered,

"Hell take you, woman; you torture me."

"Erik," Christine murmured, and she gently pulled the mask and wig away. She set them down on the piano bench, and Erik stared daggers at her. His contorted lips buckled into an angry sneer and his eyes both narrowed and welled. He shook his head and spat,

"Here. Now you see me. Do you still want me to kiss you and touch you?"

"Yes," Christine whispered. Erik's warped mouth fell open, and he slowly rose from the piano bench. He approached Christine, and her heart and breath accelerated in her chest. She observed the way his scar tissue ran in hard ridges and deep pits, the way his ear was missing, the red rivers of angry distortion on his nearly-bare skull. She should be disgusted, she thought. Most people would be. But this was her Angel of Music. This was Erik. He'd woken her up with kisses. He'd put her to sleep with his humming. He'd taught her. He'd built her a place in his home. He'd fed her a cream puff and had run his hand up her thigh. She wanted him, didn't she?

"Erik." Christine realised she was falling into the same habit he had, of saying his name over and over. It felt like he would slip away if she didn't call out to him, if she didn't beckon him near. "Erik."

Suddenly he was right in front of her, towering over her, and she stared up at his warped, maimed face. One of his hands went to the waist of the green velvet dress he'd bought her. The other hand dragged up her arm from her wrist to her shoulder. Christine shivered and then tipped her head back a little.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered. Erik's hands migrated to her hair, burrowing into her curls. He held her face steady and bent down, planting a few firm kisses on her lips.

"More," Christine hummed, and Erik grunted. His eyes looked hungry as he delved back in, as he slid his tongue between Christine's lips. She felt the strange push of his bloated lips against hers, felt the bend of his uneven jaw jutting forward. On instinct, she reached up and held his face with both of her hands, planting one palm on his good cheek and the other upon his marled half. Erik yanked his face away and shook his head, but Christine gently murmured to him,

"More kisses, please."

"Thirsty little creature," Erik teased. He pushed on her shoulders a little, backing her up until she reached the wall. She stared at Erik, who bent lower than ever and nuzzled beneath Christine's jaw. She gasped when his mouth started to work at her neck, when his lips and tongue began to caress her beneath her ear. She yelped when he nibbled, and when he did it again, she grasped his head in her hands and fretted,

"You'll mark me up."

"Mmm-hmm," he hummed and nodded against her skin. Christine's eyes fell shut at that, at the idea of having bruises on her neck from her Angel of Music. She moaned as he kissed her, and she felt the now-familiar flush of damp heat between her legs. She throbbed all over, from head to toe, wanting him, _needing_ him. Finally he ripped his mouth off of her neck and crushed her lips with his, and Christine whimpered. She grabbed at his shirt and cinched her fingers, balling the material in her little hands and drawing him nearer. She suddenly felt something hard at her abdomen; she could feel it even through her dress and corset. She looked down to see that Erik was grinding his hips up against her a bit, and he huffed loudly as he admitted,

"I want to take you into my bedroom and do unspeakable things to you, Christine."

"Do them," she dared him, her face flushing hot. Her head was spinning - no, the room was spinning.

"Christine, I am not going to ruin you," Erik whispered. He bent down and touched his forehead to hers, and his breath twined with hers in the air between them. They were both panting desperately, and Christine reached for his hands as she told him,

"I crave you like water in a desert."

"Oh, Christine… to hear words like that from _you_ … to hear you say that you… that I…" He seemed bewildered then, and suddenly she realised why he'd been so sharp with her during practise. He'd become flustered touching her in his bed. He'd been frightened it would go too far. How far was too far, Christine wondered? What would Madame Giry say if she knew that Christine was against a wall with an aroused man pressing his body on hers? What would her father think? Oh, God. What would her father have thought of _this_ angel?

"Erik," Christine choked out, "I have to go upstairs for rehearsal. It starts in a half hour."

"Yes, of course." He pulled back from her and shut his eyes for a moment. Christine noticed a sizable lump in his trousers and wondered if he was all right, but then she remembered Sabine telling the other ballet girls that men got hard between their legs when they wanted a woman. Christine averted her eyes as Erik pulled his mask and wig back on. He smoothed the hair and puffed a sigh.

"Let's go," he said crisply, picking up Christine's sheet music for _Il Muto._ "We don't want you to be late."

* * *

"Christine," said Sabine, chewing on an apple slice, "Where did you get those bruises on your neck?"

"Oh. Erm…" Christine touched at the marks left by Erik. She was taking a five minute break by the ballet girls, for those were the people she'd known for years at the opera. She gulped. "I…"

"Did _he_ do that to you?" Meg breathed, coming over and touching at Christine's neck. "Did he hurt you?"

"You stupid girl; she isn't hurt!" laughed Sabine. "Those are from kissing."

"From kissing!" Meg's eyes went round as saucers. She yanked on Christine's elbow and dragged her away from the group. Then she hissed, "Your teacher kissed your neck?"

"Meg, it's so complicated," Christine said, nibbling her lip. "It's just… I couldn't begin to explain it. I'm drawn to him like a moth to flame. And he adores me. It's strange, I know, but -"

"Where does he live?" demanded Meg, and Christine sighed.

"Here in Paris."

That wasn't a lie, but it also wasn't the truth. Meg narrowed her eyes and said,

"Eloise said you came through a stage door, but no one had seen you enter the opera house."

"Everyone's being a bit nosy." Christine scratched at her hair. "How would you like it if I pried so deeply into your activities, Meg?"

"Well, I wouldn't mind, as it happens," Meg said, tipping her head up. "We're friends."

"Yes," Christine whispered. "We'll always be friends, Meg."

"Christine Daaé," said a voice, and when Christine turned around, she saw Raoul standing before her. He smirked down to her and said, "So you are singing the role of the Countess. I'm delighted. I also wonder if I might get that dinner we planned."

"Dinner," repeated Christine. She swallowed hard. "Erm… I don't think my teacher would allow it."

"Your teacher sounds ridiculously strict," Raoul snapped. His gaze flicked around Christine's neck, and he narrowed his eyes a little. "Christine, are you all right?"

"Yes! My goodness; why won't anyone believe me that everything is fine?" Christine threw her hands up exasperatedly. "Please, Raoul. Monsieur le Vicomte. I'm sorry; if I went to dinner with you, it would mean… I just can't."

Raoul stiffened and nodded. His eyes moved to Meg, surveying the blonde girl up and down a few times before he said politely,

"Miss Giry, I wonder if you'd care to dine with me tonight."

If Meg minded being Raoul's second choice, she didn't show it. She broke into a fierce grin and nodded vigorously.

"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Vicomte. Thank you."

Raoul bowed to Meg and said stoutly, "Seven o'clock. I shall pick you up, Miss Giry."

He turned and walked briskly away, and Meg swatted Christine's arm.

"You're about to lose your chance with a _vicomte,_ " she whispered frantically, "and I mean to be there to sweep him up when you do. If you don't want Raoul de Chagny, I'll certainly take him."

Christine shut her eyes and imagined Erik pressing her against the wall, kissing her so hard her lips had felt bruised. She imagined his fingertips trailing up her thigh, his delicious dessert, the nightgown he'd bought for her. She thought of falling asleep in his bed, of him punting the boat back and forth across the lake. She thought of practising with him, of his stern instruction. She thought of all of that, and when she opened her eyes, she met Meg's gaze and said,

"You can keep the _vicomte,_ Meg. I think rehearsal is starting back up. See you."

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading and please do review!**


	5. The Stagehand

"Christine, are you certain that I look all right?" Meg twirled in her bustled coral-coloured dress and dragged her fingertips along the lacy bodice. "I don't own anything nice enough for dinner with a vicomte."

"I think you look perfect for dinner with the vicomte," Christine gushed. "Who knows, Meg? Maybe Raoul will fall head over heels in love with you."

"Not likely," Meg scoffed. She gave Christine a meaningful look and said, "Sabine's coming as chaperone. I thought perhaps you wouldn't want to come. You don't seem to like Monsieur le Vicomte very much."

"It isn't that I don't like him," Christine said exasperatedly. "It's that he questions too much. And I find him disagreeable. That's all."

"Disagreeable?" Meg raised her eyebrows. "He was watching me during rehearsal today. Did you know?"

Christine smirked. "See? He's already got his eyes locked onto you."

" _Your_ dress is beautiful." Meg brushed her fingers over the green velvet of Christine's skirts. "He bought you clothes? Your teacher?"

"Yes, he's been most generous," Christine said proudly. "He cares deeply for me, Meg."

Meg gave her a strange look. Then her face shifted, and she asked, "What is it like? Kissing until you get bruises on your neck?"

Christine laughed softly and shook her head. "Like nothing I'd imagined. Like everything I need to breathe. I want to kiss him again and again. Oh, Meg."

She threw her hands up and tossed her head back. Meg giggled and said,

"He really did mark you up."

"I know. Joseph Buquet was teasing me about it earlier," Christine complained. Her face felt more serious then as she said, "He told me I obviously liked men, and he wondered if he could get a piece for himself."

"Oh, that man," growled Meg, putting her hands on her waist. "You know he pinched Eloise's rear end the other day? He's a menace."

Christine's stomach quivered. For some reason, she thought she ought not tell her Angel of Music what Joseph Buquet had said to her. She had a bad feeling about his anger in such a situation. She sighed and told Meg,

"Go out front with Sabine. Raoul will be here soon to take you to dinner."

"And you?" asked Meg. Christine cocked an eyebrow.

"What about me?"

"Where are you going to eat dinner?" Meg pressed. Christine pinched her lips into a line and said softly,

"With my tutor."

"Your Angel of Music," nodded Meg. She narrowed her eyes. "With a man who's been watching you for years. Christine, you must understand why none of this makes sense to the rest of us. Why we're all so worried."

"There is _nothing_ to worry about," Christine insisted. "He is my angel still, though he is a man. He is…"

She took a long, steadying breath and finally whispered,

"I have very strong feelings towards him, Meg."

"Well," Meg huffed, "I am happy for you if you are happy and safe. Be well; I'm off to dinner."

"Enjoy the vicomte," Christine said, putting her hand on her friend's shoulder. Then she turned to walk down the corridor, to her dressing room. Meg called after her,

"Where are you going?"

"I, erm… forgot something earlier. After rehearsal," Christine lied over her shoulder. She waved and smiled as Meg finally dashed away, off to dine with Raoul de Chagny.

Christine was almost to her dressing room when she heard a throat clear behind her. She whirled around and saw Joseph Buquet with his hands on his broad hips. He narrowed his eyes at Christine and barked,

"Off to see the Opera Ghost, are we? Everyone knows he's the one that's been teaching you."

"It's none of your business, Monsieur Buquet," said Christine, backing towards the door. She had her palms pressed to the shiny wood as Joseph Buquet approached her, smelling of wine and reeking of sweat. He got so near that Christine could see the drunken glaze in his eyes, and she warned him in a whisper,

"He can see you."

"I doubt that," said Buquet. He reached out and cupped one of Christine's breasts in his hand. She swatted roughly at his wrist and shoved at his chest. He laughed maliciously, a low rumble of wicked glee. He reached out again, saying gruffly, "You let him bruise up your pretty little neck. Let me have a taste."

" _No!_ " Christine shoved roughly again, and then suddenly a black mass thudded to the ground behind Joseph Buquet. The fat stagehand was yanked back, a cord around his neck, cinching as the person behind him dragged him away from Christine. She clapped a hand to her mouth to silence herself. Joseph Buquet gurgled and his face went beet red as he was strangled. His eyes bugged out of his mouth and his tongue twisted oddly. He kicked his legs and flailed his arms, but the cloaked figure behind him was too strong to overcome. Finally, Buquet went still and quiet, and the figure set the body on the ground between himself and Christine.

"Go through the mirror," hissed Erik's voice. "Take a lantern. Wait for me on the shore of the lake. I'll come for you. Wait for me."

Christine shook with silent tears as she realised Erik had just murdered a man. She shook her head no and tightened her hand on her face. Erik looked up, revealing the glint of his white mask beneath his hood, and he pointed to the door of the dressing room.

"Go," he insisted again. "They'll never know what happened."

Christine's breath hitched so severely as she began to sob that she thought she'd faint. She felt dizzy as she reached behind her and opened the door to the dressing room. She flung herself into the room and slammed the door shut, turning the lock. Her hands shook like mad as she lit an oil lantern and tried to hold it without dropping it. She walked over to the mirror-door and stood for a moment, staring at her reflection. She trembled so badly that she very nearly dropped her light, but she managed to stay upright and relatively steady as she tried to process what had just happened.

Joseph Buquet had had something terrible planned for Christine. She reached up and brushed her fingertips over the breast that he'd grabbed. She blinked a few times as tears welled in her eyes. She went to her boudoir table and set down the lantern, realising she couldn't hold it properly right now. She was shaking too badly. She'd seen a man die - Erik had _killed_ Joseph Buquet! She shut her eyes tightly and saw the man writhing and wriggling under the Phantom's lasso as the life leached out of him. Tears began to stream down Christine's face as she tried to imagine what Buquet would have done to her if Erik hadn't come in time.

Had Erik been up in the catwalks, she wondered? How had he arrived just at the right moment? Had he been watching Meg talk to Christine? Had he heard her tell Meg that she had fond feelings for him? Did any of that matter when Joseph Buquet was _dead?_

Suddenly Christine felt her knees give out, and she collapsed onto the floor. She sobbed and sobbed until she couldn't breathe, until her restrictive corset felt like a trap around her torso. There was black around the edges of her vision; she couldn't see straight. She leaned heavily onto her hands on the rug and whispered frantically,

"He killed Joseph Buquet. I was under attack. He's dead. He was going to hurt me."

Christine's ears rang then, and she saw spots, and then everything went black and cold.

* * *

"Christine."

She blinked her eyes open and found herself staring at a ceiling. Where was she? Had she fallen?

"You're in your bedroom," murmured Erik's voice. Christine turned her head a little and saw Erik sitting beside her in a chair. She had been carefully placed atop the down blankets of her sleigh bed, she could tell now. Christine sat up quickly, but when she gasped for air, her corset restrained her. Erik put his hand on her shoulder and said in a soft, dulcet tone,

"Gently, my dear. You've had a shock."

Christine scampered backward across the bed, away from Erik. She jabbed a finger at him and said accusingly,

"You're a murderer!"

Erik's asymmetrical eyes flashed. He sniffed and tipped up his jagged chin. "I killed the man who was attacking you. And I heard Meg Giry say that he's been harassing ballet girls."

"So you _killed_ him," Christine breathed. "Why couldn't you just… just… punch him?"

"Punch him?" Erik's good eyebrow ticked up. He shifted in his chair and said angrily, "I watched him assault you. You think that a solid punch would stop him from doing it again? Anyway, he needed true punishment. No one is allowed to touch you like that."

Christine's fingers instinctively went to the place where Joseph Buquet had grabbed her, and she brushed them over the breast. She gulped and whispered,

"No one?"

Erik narrowed his eyes. "No one is allowed to take from you what you have not given. I will not stand by and watch you be violated. I took my vengeance."

"And where is Joseph Buquet right now?" asked Christine. Erik licked his lips and shrugged.

"This city is full of sewers," he said in a straightforward tone, "and the water washes all manner of things away. Or perhaps the rats will feast; I don't -"

"Stop." Christine shut her eyes and held up a hand. She started to cry again, to quiver with silent sobs as tears emerged from her eyes. She whispered frantically, "You murdered a man because of me."

"Buquet disappeared," Erik corrected her, "which is a good thing, and he won't be missed."

"He has a wife," Christine choked out. "Children."

"Undoubtedly, they would be ashamed to learn that their beloved Joseph was mauling young girls," Erik said stiffly. "If you are seeking an apology from me, Christine, you will not find it. I am not sorry."

Christine slowly lay back down, shivering so badly that she convulsed a little. Her teeth chattered and her fingers shook against her skirts.

"You are in shock," Erik said again. "You need to rest."

"I need to…" Christine nearly said, _I need to leave!_ But she realised that she felt safe here with Erik in a way she wouldn't have felt around anyone else right now. To be certain, Erik was vicious. But it was as he'd said. Joseph Buquet had been a predator, and Christine had been his victim. Was death the correct sentence? Who was Christine to decide that? All she knew was that she'd been in the process of being assaulted when Erik had swept in and rescued her.

"Can you change into a nightgown?" asked Erik softly. Christine shut her eyes and whispered,

"I'll need help. I'm too… too shaky and…"

"I will avert my gaze," said Erik politely. He helped Christine out of the bed, and her legs felt like wriggly jam beneath her. She staggered over to her wardrobe, leaning heavily on Erik for support. Once she reached the wardrobe, Christine began to unbuckle the bodice of her green velvet dress. But her hands got caught up, trembling too ferociously for her to undress. Erik's fingers gently brushed hers aside, and he glanced away as he began to unfasten the clasps.

"I had no choice, Christine," he murmured as she peeled off the bodice. "He hurt you."

"It didn't hurt," she said with a little cough, but Erik scowled and his throat bobbed.

"You know very well what I mean."

Christine managed to strip off her skirt, bustle, and petticoats until she was standing in her chemise, drawers, and corset. She worked at the busk of the corset, but her fingers were still trembling terribly. Erik covered her hands with his and whispered,

"Let me help you."

"You've already done enough," Christine scoffed, but she let him unbuckle the front of the cotton drill corset from the top down. Once she peeled it off, Christine realised that her chemise was sticking to her in a rather revealing way. She'd been sweating from the shock, probably, and from having fainted. She yanked at the hem of the chemise and adjusted it, but when she looked up, Erik was staring at the wall. His face was serious and his jaw was squared.

"Erik," whispered Christine, "I need for you to hold me. I need to know you're not just a murderer who -"

"I killed the man who hurt you," clipped Erik. "I did not commit murder for sport. There is, my dear, a vast difference. Believe me; I know."

Christine huffed a breath, finally free of her corset, and mumbled,

"I should still like to feel compassion from you. Real compassion."

"Of course." Erik sniffed a little and walked over to the side of Christine's sleigh bed. He kicked off his shiny black dress shoes and stripped off his jacket, revealing a white shirt and suspenders with his dark trousers. He climbed into the bed, and Christine made her way on wobbly legs over to the other side. She crawled in and faced away from Erik, hoping he would get the hint. After a moment, he curled up behind her and wrapped an arm over her, kissing her cheek and then lying his face down onto the pillow.

"Will they find him?" Christine asked numbly.

"No."

"Will they know it was you?" she pressed. Erik hesitated for just a moment.

"Not if you keep my secret," he said. Christine turned her face until she was looking at him, and she said somewhat defensively,

"You can trust me, Erik."

"I know. Christine… my Christine. I will never let anyone hurt you again."

"Your Christine," she echoed, whispering her own name. "Am I yours?"

"I wish with all my heart that you were mine," Erik hummed. "I wish you were mine to teach, to protect, to… to…"

She turned her face again, and this time he looked almost afraid. He met her gaze as he whispered,

"To love."

"I'm afraid, Erik," she choked out. It wasn't surprising, somehow, to learn that he loved her. And she knew she felt strongly towards him. He knew that, too; he'd been listening in on Meg's conversation with Christine. But Joseph Buquet was dead, and Christine had seen Erik kill him. Christine had witnessed death today. She was afraid. Afraid of Erik, afraid of Joseph Buquet, afraid of what came next.

"Christine, I love you," Erik said gently. He snared his fingers into Christine's hair, and she rolled onto her back. He bent and kissed her lips carefully, his own warped mouth rough against Christine. She hummed onto him and pulled his face back, whispering desperately,

"Please don't leave me tonight."

"You need to eat dinner," he told her, but she shook her head and insisted,

"I am not hungry. I am… I want to sleep. I just want to sleep. Please, Erik, just hold me."

He lay down on his own back, and Christine curled up against him, her chemise bunching up around her a little as she tossed a leg over his hips and cast an arm across his chest. She snuggled against his white shirt, smelling books and leather and paper and ink on him. He kissed her hair and whispered again,

"I love you."

"How long have you known that?" Christine asked, and there was silence for a while until at last Erik admitted,

"Long enough. Sleep, my dear. Morning will come before you know it, and you'll have to go above ground to see and hear all the reactions to Buquet being missing. You'll have to be strong, to pretend you know nothing. You'll have to protect the both of us, Christine."

She shook a bit again and said, "I won't be able to do it."

"Yes, you will," he told her. "You will because you must. You'll be fine, Christine. You are brave and strong. All will be well."

Christine shut her eyes, but when she did, she saw Joseph Buquet struggling against the lasso. She felt his hand on her breast, heard the growl of his voice demanding her body. She began to cry, silently and without moving, her tears soaking into Erik's white shirt. If he minded, he didn't say anything. He just let her lie there and cry, let her tremble in his arms, until after a very long while, Christine descended into fitful sleep.

She opened her eyes at one point during the night to find that Erik was sitting up and staring straight ahead. In the dim lamplight, his white mask glinted and shone. Christine reached up and pulled her fingertips over the mask, and Erik glanced down at her. He dragged his knuckles over her cheek in a mirror of her action. They just stroked one another's faces for a long while, until Erik said, yet again,

"Christine, I love you."

Killer. He was a killer.

He was her teacher. He'd touched her and kissed her. He was in love with her. He'd built a home for the both of them here. Christine gulped and whispered,

"Erik, I… my feelings for you are -"

"Hush." He shook his head. "Don't say anything about that. Just know that it's true, Christine. I wish for you to be mine. I love you. And I rid this world of the man who harmed you, because I will always protect you. That's all there is to any of this."

Christine nodded and shut her eyes, and she heard Erik say as he stroked her hairline,

"Go back to sleep, beauty; it's so early yet."

She curled her fingers around his thigh and curled up alongside him, trying not to think of Joseph Buquet.

**Author's Note: Oh, no! Drama! What will happen when Christine goes to rehearsal with Buquet missing? What happened with Meg and Raoul at dinner? And will Christine start giving in to the way Erik adores her? Thank you so much for reading - please do review.**


	6. Bastards and Bathtubs

"Christine!" Meg Giry came pattering down the corridor, her tutu fluttering around her as she neared Christine. Meg reached out and grabbed Christine's arms and giggled like mad. "Oh, Christine. I see what you mean about men. Oh, it was wonderful! It was magic!"

Christine laughed and shook her head. "That good?"

"He wanted to hear all about the ballet," Meg gushed, her blonde ringlets quivering with excitement. "He wanted to hear all about life at the opera house. And then he told me stories of his travels - do you know he's been to Venice? Oh, and he told me about his family's home near the sea, and we just talked all night!"

Christine's grin was so broad it hurt her cheeks, and she cupped Meg's face in her hands as she felt happiness for the first time since the day before. She touched her forehead to Meg's and whispered,

"Meg, Vicomtesse de Chagny."

Meg chortled and pulled back. "You tease me, but I really mean it! It was magnificent."

"I'm sure it was," Christine said. "Will there be another dinner?"

"Yes!" Meg exclaimed. "He's asked me out again tomorrow night. I'm thrilled; I can't wait. We're going to go dancing, Christine! Isn't it marvelous?"

"Oh, it is." Christine sighed and tipped her head, a habit she'd picked up from Erik. "I'm so happy for you, Meg."

"And how are things with your Angel of Music?" asked Meg in a sing-song voice. Christine's smile faltered, but she choked out a laugh and lied,

"Grand, as always. This morning, we practised the scene where Don Attilio discovers his wife's affair."

"I'm sure you'll sound wonderful singing it," Meg said warmly. "You'll be a real _prima donna_ soon enough. I'm glad that fat cow La Carlotta has gone."

"Hush, Meg!" Christine pulled Meg to the side of the corridor and laughed just a little. "You're cruel."

"Oh, you know she was piggish," Meg said, swatting her hand. "And _eva-rything a-need to be her way._ "

Meg's imitation of La Carlotta made Christine laugh again, but then Sabine came plodding up to the girls, her ballet slippers quiet on the wooden floorboards. Sabine looked concerned.

"Have either of you seen Joseph Buquet?"

"N-No," Christine lied, too quickly. "Why?"

Sabine scowled. "He hasn't come in yet, and the managers are looking for him. The stagehands are trying to get everything settled for the scene we're rehearsing today, and no one can find him."

"I'm sure Eloise isn't too sad he's missing," Meg spat, crossing her arms. "He grabs girls."

Christine bit her tongue, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip and trying not to give anything away.

"Well, he's a necessary evil," Sabine shrugged. "The stagehands are struggling without him."

"How difficult can it be to lower a scrim and put some furniture and props onstage?" demanded Meg with a scoff.

"Miss Daaé, on stage, if you please!" Monsieur Firmin's voice rang down the corridor, and Christine gave an apologetic little smile to both Meg and Sabine. She moved past them, her scarlet silk skirts swishing on the ground. This was the third dress from Erik she'd worn, and it was her favourite so far. Trimmed with black lace and glittering crystal spangles, it made her feel like a princess. Or a _prima donna._ It hadn't come cheap. Christine knew that much. Erik had bought it for her, and the idea of that made her smile to herself.

_Don't think about Joseph Buquet,_ she snapped at herself in her mind, but the minute she saw all of the ropes and weights backstage, she was reminded of Buquet's purple-red swollen face as he spat and squirmed under Erik's lasso. Then she took a breath and thought of how he'd cupped and squeezed her breast, the way he'd asked for a taste of her. Erik had rescued her. When Christine had awakened this morning, he'd told her as much.

_I saved you from being attacked,_ Erik had said over breakfast, _and I gave the predator his due. I did nothing wrong._

As Christine swept out onto the stage, music in hand, she flashed a meagre smile to _Signor_ Piangi, who as a high tenor was playing a gossipping aristocrat. He did not smile back, instead giving Christine a sour look with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. He'd been the lover of La Carlotta, everyone said. He was probably discontent not only about La Carlotta's departure, but also about his minor role in the production. The role of Don Attilio was being played by René Jules, a baritone in the chorus. Everything about this production was what the managers wanted - new, fresh blood presenting opera at the Populaire.

"Miss Daaé, we shall begin with your lines to Don Attilio on page thirty-four. Now, Monsieur Jules, as she sings, you must exaggerate your reactions. Remember, this is a comedy! I want things big and dramatic!" cried Monsieur Reyer. Christine nodded her assent and dipped into a little curtsy to the maestro. Suddenly something caught her eye - a glint of white at the back of Box Five.

She smiled a little as she realised what she was seeing. Erik's mask was just barely visible up in the boxes, but she knew he was there. He was watching her rehearse. Suddenly flush with exhilaration, Christine held her music out in front of her and turned to page thirty-four. She nodded to the maestro, who flicked his baton to ready the orchestra. Christine began to sing in a flitting but firm voice.

" _Oh, my dear, my darling husband. How did you come to know of what I have done with my Serafimo? Oh, my dear, my darling husband. What sort of -"_

"Stop there, please!" called Monsieur Reyer from the pit. Christine blinked, thinking she must have made some sort of error, but her voice had been clear and strong. But Monsieur Reyer called up to the stage, looking past Christine to Monsieur Jules.

"When the Countess asks how you came to know of her affair, Monsieur Jules, you must be terribly exasperated with her defensiveness. Kindly act the scene with more vigour."

"Yes, Maestro," said Monsieur Jules. Christine took a steadying breath and looked up into the boxes again. There he was, perched high above the orchestra, watching Christine sing. She smiled again, trying not to wave at Erik. She heard the orchestra strike up again, and her eyes turned to Monsieur Jules as she sang.

" _Oh, my dear, my darling husband. How did you come to know of what I have done with my Serafimo? Oh, my dear, darling husband. What sort of betrayal has made a friend in bad faith speak to you? Oh, my dear darling husband, forgive your wife's transgressions. My blood was hot but my heart was cold - Dear God, the things we do._ "

"Pause again for a moment." Monsieur Reyer lowered his baton, and there was silence throughout the rehearsal space. Christine flicked her eyes to the wings, where Meg stood with her mother, watching. Meg grinned broadly and nodded, and Madame Giry's lips were curled up. Christine turned her gaze up to the boxes, where she knew Erik was watching. Did he approve? Did he like her singing?

"That sounds magnificent, Miss Daaé," said Monsieur Firmin. He turned to his partner and said firmly, "I daresay we have made the right choice in casting the girl, André."

"Quite right," nodded Monsieur André. "She is divine."

Christine blushed and laughed a little, but then there was a ruckus behind her. She whirled around to see that a stagehand had come blustering onto the stage. The young man was red-cheeked and sweaty, and he burst out,

"Monsieur Buquet's wife says he never came home from the opera house last night!"

Christine gripped her sheet music more tightly. There was chaos then, as the dancers and chorus members trickled onstage from the wings, chattering animatedly among themselves.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" cried Monsieur Firmin. He held up his hands, storming up the side stairs onto the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen - _please!_ "

"Silence!" said Madame Giry, just a hair more loudly than she normally spoke. Christine met Meg's eyes and read fear in Meg's blue gaze. At Madame Giry's command, everyone got quiet, and Monsieur Firmin held out his hands in an open gesture.

"Has no one at all seen Joseph Buquet? Is he truly missing!"

"Perhaps he committed suicide by jumping into the Seine!" exclaimed Nadine from the chorus.

"Or maybe he was killed by the Opera Ghost!" yelled Sabine from a cluster of ballet dancers. "Monsieur Buquet always warned us! It was the Phantom of the Opera who did it!"

"And what exactly is _it?_ " Christine demanded sharply. "Monsieur Buquet has not been seen; we have no evidence of his death!"

Everyone was awfully quiet then. Monsieur Jules scratched at his hair, and Sabine shrugged.

"I, for one, pray that Joseph Buquet is safe and sound, wherever he is," said Madame Giry tightly. Christine nodded.

"I shall pray also, Madame Giry."

"As for me, I _hope_ he jumped off a bridge," said Nadine, the chorus singer. When everyone stared at her in shock, she tipped up her chin and said stoutly, "That lecherous man was a villain to me."

"And to me," said Eloise, touching her ballet skirt delicately. Christine's eyes welled a little, and she admitted,

"He was… less than appropriate with me. Still, I shall pray for him."

"Goodness; it sounds as though, if the man does turn up, he requires sacking!" said a man in the chorus. Ubaldo Piangi cleared his throat and said,

"He, ah, he touch Carlotta. She tell me. She, ah, she slap his face!"

"Send him away! We all know he's wretched!" cried Nadine.

"Good heavens, woman, there is no man to send away!" replied Monsieur Firmin helplessly. "He is missing! Possibly dead!"

"I think we have discussed Monsieur Buquet sufficiently," snapped Monsieur André from behind the orchestra. "We shall see if he comes back or not. Enough talk of the _Phantom_ , if you please, and kindly get off the stage if you are not in this scene. We are rehearsing!"

The chorus and ballet dancers shuffled off the stage, muttering to one another as they went. Christine felt rattled, like she'd been shaken roughly by the shoulders. She blinked quickly and stared up at Box Five, but Erik's mask had disappeared. Her heart hammered in her chest as Monsieur Reyer called out, "Continuing on from Don Attilio's lines."

Christine trembled where she stood, staring at Monsieur Jules as he sang,

" _I can not believe your lies, you snake of a wife. I can not look into your eyes. These vipers in my life! Damned, damned I am to an unhappy life and a lonely death. Ah, the whirling of my mind, the theft of my breath! Betrayed, betrayed am I, you evil woman. Go, then. Go, then. Go! Go! Go!"_

" _I'll go-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh,"_ trilled Christine in response. " _Serafimo may not speak, but I know of his love for me! I know of Serafimo's neverending love for me._ "

"No, no. Stop." Monsieur Reyer sounded exasperated as he cut the orchestra off. "Miss Daaé, you just sang that as though we are hosting a funeral onstage. It was lovely - beautiful, even, but remember, this is a comedy!"

Christine huffed a breath. Her lines did not feel particularly comedic to her. And all she could really think about was Joseph Buquet reaching for her, asking for a taste of her, and then being yanked away from her by Erik.

"I shall try to be more cheery, Maestro," Christine promised.

"Big smile, Miss Daaé. Tease your old fool of a husband." Monsieur Firmin spoke from beside Christine, and she nodded. The orchestra kicked back up, and Christine sang merrily,

" _I'll go-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh! Serafimo may not speak, but I know of his love for me! I know of Serafimo's neverending love for me."_

" _You've but one problem, wicked woman,"_ sang Monsieur Jules as Don Attilio. " _New lives cost money, and your money is mine._ "

" _Serafimo and I have no need of your riches! We will be just fine,"_ pattered Christine in a bouncing voice.

" _Then run away in poverty; the error's yours!_ " sang Monsieur Jules, and Christine strode over to him and put her hands on her hips as she finished the piece.

" _At least with Serafimo, I will not be bored._ "

"Good. Very well done." Monsieur Reyer cut off the orchestra and said, "A five minute break, if you please, and then we shall bring in the ballet for the sailing scene. Miss Daaé, you may take luncheon. Monsieur Jules. You may go. Thank you."

Christine curtsied to the Maestro and carried her music offstage. Once she reached the wings, Meg grabbed at her red silk sleeve and pulled her aside.

"Do you really think he's dead?" hissed Meg. "You don't think somebody killed him?"

"Why would someone kill him?" Christine said, hoping her voice wasn't shaking.

"Why hasn't anyone killed him before now?" Meg spat. "I never told you what he did to me. I'm not sorry he's gone."

"What? Meg, what did he do to you?" Christine put her hands on Meg's shoulders, and Meg sighed, looking very sad all of a sudden.

"It was after rehearsal one day. I went back to the dormitories to fetch my drawstring bag, and Joseph Buquet caught up with me. He reached around from behind and grasped my chest, and he… he… rubbed himself against me."

"Meg!" gasped Christine. "Did you tell your mother?"

"No. I've never told anyone but you," Meg whispered. Her big blue eyes welled heavily with tears. Suddenly Christine thought that Erik was a hero for destroying a man like this, a predator who had been accused by Meg, by Eloise, by Nadine, by Carlotta, and by Christine herself. How many women had he hurt? He was lying dead in a sewer somewhere, Christine thought to herself. Rats were having their way with him. She chewed her lip and said to Meg,

"I want you to focus on Raoul. Raoul would never hurt you like that."

"No. I know. Raoul's a good man," Meg nodded. She swiped roughly at her tears. "And we're going dancing tomorrow."

"Ballet on stage!" called Madame Giry, and Christine looked beyond Meg to see her mentor standing in her staid black gown, holding her silver-capped cane. Madame Giry locked eyes with Christine, frowning deeply. Suddenly Christine realised that Madame Giry knew. She knew that Erik had killed Joseph Buquet. How she'd found out, Christine couldn't say. But she could read it as plain as day in Madame Giry's grey eyes. Christine turned back to Meg and said quite firmly,

"Go and dance like the beautiful dancer you are, Meg. And know that Joseph Buquet will never hurt any of us again. He's gone."

"What if he comes back?" Meg asked sorrowfully.

"Dancers! On stage at once!" called Madame Giry. Christine pushed Meg toward the stage and said confidently,

"He's gone, Meg."

* * *

"Erik?" asked Christine as she climbed into the gondola. Erik pushed the boat away from the shore and began to punt. Christine stared up at him over her shoulder, and he said softly,

"Yes, my dear?"

"Did you know about Meg? About what Joseph Buquet did to her?"

Erik's jaw stiffened. "I can't be everywhere at once. I didn't know he harmed Antoinette's daughter."

Christine licked her lips and dragged a fingertip through the lake water, staring into the black depth. They neared the portcullis, and as it rose, Christine pondered that Madame Giry really did know Erik well. Had they been lovers? Was Erik Meg's father? Wild thoughts whirled in Christine's head.

"Antoinette discovered me in Box Five one time," said Erik as the portcullis dripped water into the lake. They passed under it, and he said, "She and I are not _friends_ , you understand, but we work well together. She ensures I get the salary I am due, and I in turn promise to protect her ballet girls. It seems I have failed."

"You protected me," Christine reminded him, still staring at the rippling drag of her fingertip in the water. "You killed that bastard like it was nothing."

" _That bastard,_ " Erik repeated. He sounded almost amused then as he said, "It seems you have come to grips with his death."

"Let's talk about something else," Christine said. "Anything else."

They were nearing the far shore of the lake, and there was quiet for a moment as the gondola pushed forward. But then Erik announced softly,

"Your voice was magnificent today. And you were resplendent in scarlet silk. You were born for the stage, Christine. People will flock to hear you sing."

"Erik," she murmured self-consciously. The boat dragged up along the shore then, and Erik leaped out. He helped Christine rise and exit the gondola, and then he suggested,

"Dinner?"

"I ate with Meg," Christine said apologetically. "I wanted to be sure she was all right, after what she confessed to me."

"Hmm." Erik held Christine's hand in his as they walked up to the door of his bizarrely-constructed home.

"Are you hungry?" Christine asked, but Erik flashed her a playful look and said,

"I ate after your rehearsal. I was waiting for the alarm of the mirror; I'd hoped you'd come sooner."

"I'm sorry, Angel," Christine said. He didn't correct her name for him. She puffed a breath as they walked into the corridor, and she asked, "May I have a bath? The heat on stage today…"

"A bath. Yes, of course. Do you know I have hot water taps down here?" Erik seemed quite proud of that, and he said, "I've a coal-powered heater whose pipes run into the kitchen and bathroom. One scuttle a day is all it takes. You'll have a nice warm bath, Christine."

She grinned quite contentedly at that, but her smile faded when Erik snatched her wrist and started dragging her to her bedroom. Christine was confused until he dashed over to the wardrobe and opened it. Christine gasped. It was full to bursting now; there were at least ten dresses inside and there were multiple sets of undergarments. Three nightgowns hung at one end, and there were new boots at the bottom.

"I measured your shoes last night," Erik confessed, and Christine shivered as she remembered the way he'd stayed awake beside her as she'd slept.

The way he'd told her over and over again that he loved her.

"A friend of mine - I suppose you could call us friends - He paid me a visit today and I sent him on this errand. I hope they suit you."

"Erik…" Christine felt tears welling up in her eyes, and as she turned to him, she tossed her arms around his shoulders and squeezed tightly. She felt his hand press against her back, and he hummed down to her,

"Now you can stay here forever with me."

Christine shut her eyes and burrowed her face against his chest. _Christine, I love you_ , he'd said, over and over. She breathed him in - leather and paper and ink. Then she raised her eyes to him and asked,

"Shall I take my bath now, Erik?"

"I'll go run the water," he said, and he turned to walk from her room. He shut the door behind him, and Christine sighed. She should be horrified, she thought, about what she'd seen Erik do to Joseph Buquet. Instead she was filled with adoration for him. It should seem _off_ that he wanted her to stay here forever. Instead, it felt charming. Was she a fool? Had she gone mad?

She stripped off her scarlet bodice and skirts, her petticoats and corset, until she was left in her chemise and drawers. She peeled off her stockings and reached up into the wardrobe, pulling out one of the new nightgowns. Who was this mysterious friend who had run Erik's errands for him, she wondered? It hadn't been Madame Giry. Erik said it had been a _he_. Was it someone from his past? She felt like she knew too little about him, like she needed to know more.

The nightgown she'd extracted from the wardrobe looked like a Renaissance costume. It was off-the-shoulder, a sheer material with puffed sleeves and a satin ribbon at the waist. Christine ran her fingers along the gauzy fabric and smiled a little. Erik, her teacher, her Angel of Music, was in love with her. She walked over to the bedroom door and down the corridor to the bathroom he'd built for her. Inside was beautiful wood paneling all over the walls, with a sweeping porcelain bathtub, a free-standing water closet, and a sink with twin brass taps.

Erik stood in just his white shirt, suspenders, and trousers, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, beside the bathtub. He appeared to be testing the temperature of the water, but he faced away from Christine, and in the rushing sound of the tub filling, he obviously didn't hear her come in. She ogled his taut forearms, muscular but lean. His fingers dragged over the water's surface, and Christine shivered despite the steamy heat in the room. Those fingers played the organ, the piano, the violin. Those fingers had caressed Christine. She let her eyes slowly fall shut as she began to fantasise about Erik touching her somewhere else, and then she heard his voice quite near her saying,

"It's almost ready, Christine."

She opened her eyes and panted a little as she stared up at him. He'd removed his cravat and tie, she saw, and now it was obvious to her that his scarring and disfigurement extended below his jaw and down onto his neck. There were shiny grooves of tissue running from his ear to the collar of his shirt, including one rivulet of reddened flesh that looked like it must be painful. Christine tried not to stare, but Erik informed her,

"My mother masked my face. The rest she hid with clothing."

Christine blinked and met his eyes. The blind one stared at her just like the dark one, and Christine said softly,

"Thank you for readying the bath."

"There is Castile soap beside the tub," Erik said, "and the towel is Turkish. I built this for you."

"I know you did." She smirked a little. "You built me a wood-paneled bathroom before you had any guarantee I'd ever come down here with you."

"I knew you'd come," he whispered. "You were always meant to be mine. Christine."

She gulped and rubbed at his shoulder as she walked by him, turning off the taps on the bathtub. Erik silently exited the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Christine contemplated locking it, but she knew that wouldn't keep him out even if she'd been trying to obtain real privacy. She stripped off her chemise and drawers and folded them, setting them on the black-and-white tiled floor. She put one leg into the bath, then the other, and hissed at how hot it was as she sank down. She relished the feel of the scalding water upon her body, and then she dipped back until her hair was submerged and her face was underwater. She came back up with a gasp and shoved curls from her face, reaching for the bar of Castile soap on the tile.

The soap smelled of roses when she began to rub it into her hair. She emulsified the foamy suds all over her curls and then dipped down again to rinse. Now the water was cloudy with soap, and as Christine scrubbed at her body with soap and a washcloth, she began to feel a tingling sensation.

She knew why; it was because Erik was on her mind. What was he doing right now, she wondered? She finished with the soap and wrung out the washcloth, setting both down on the tile. She relaxed back into the tub and let the hot water surround her, let the steamy, rosy air enter her nostrils.

And then, very much on instinct, her right hand slid into the water and slipped down over her flat belly. Her middle finger touched at the sensitive nub between her legs, and she gasped. Her mouth fell open and her head fell back a little. In her mind, Erik had her against a wall and was grinding against her. His mouth was locked on her neck, bruising her up. His hands were on her body, and she -

She pulsed her fingers against that sensitive core of her womanhood, twisting her forefinger and middle finger against her body and drove her thumb against the nub. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip and moaned softly. She gripped the edge of the bathtub with her left hand, sitting up with a little splash. She kept thinking of Erik kissing her, touching her, singing to her…

And suddenly everything was tightening, coiling in her belly with a dark heat. Christine groaned and cinched her fingers around the edge of the tub. Her fingers hooked inside the entrance of her body, and her thumb flicked and pressed. Her ears started to ring, and there were spots before her eyes. She gasped again, twisting in the tub as water spattered the porcelain. All of a sudden, Christine found herself in the midst of an explosion. Her walls were contracting around her fingers, and she was trembling like the last leaf of autumn. She held onto the sides of the tub and instinctively cried out, almost in a shriek,

"Erik!"

As the intense heat in her ears began to fade, Christine heard footsteps out in the corridor. There was loud knocking on the door then, and Erik's voice called,

"Christine! Have you fallen? Are you all right?"

"I… erm…" Christine pulled her right hand out of the tub and stared at her fingers. She shut her eyes and imagined calling him into the bathroom. He could sit beside her and touch her bare breasts. He could -

"Christine! If you don't answer, I'm coming in!" Erik exclaimed, and she heard the panic in his voice.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "I just… erm… was afraid for a moment."

She reached down into the water, thinking that she'd had enough bath time for one night. She pulled the rubber stopper out of the drain and heaved herself out of the water. She reached for the warm Turkish towel that Erik had procured for her, and she wrapped it around her body.

"Christine, are you sure you're all right?" Erik called through the door.

"Fine! Just fine!" she lied, for something had happened to her that she'd never experienced before. Thinking about Erik's hands and mouth on her had brought her to ecstasy. Would she ever feel that again? She dried off her body and patted her damp curls, and she hung up the towel. She pulled on her drawers and the beautiful sheer nightgown that Erik had sent someone to buy for her. Then she walked straight out of the bathroom and right past Erik, turning the corner into her bedroom.

She sat on the pale green velvet stool at her boudoir and picked up her ornamental comb. She yanked it through her wet hair as Erik slowly came into the room.

"You called for me," he said. "What was the matter?"

"It was nothing," Christine said quickly. "Have you got a ribbon? I'd like to braid my hair."

"In the drawer there." Erik pointed to the boudoir, and Christine blinked quickly as she contemplated the idea of him filling up drawers with ribbons for her hair. She opened the little drawer in the centre and found five lengths of black velvet ribbon. She pulled one out and brought her hair over one shoulder and put it into a tight braid. She made a bow out of the velvet ribbon near the ends, and she turned over her shoulder to finally say to Erik, in an embarrassed voice,

"I was thinking of you, so I said your name."

He looked a bit confused. His good side of his face crumpled into a deep frown as he said, "You… _screamed_ my name, Christine."

"Perhaps it just echoed off all the porcelain and the wood and…" Christine let her voice die. Erik was giving her a strange look now, as if he knew something she didn't. He took a very deep breath and whispered,

"I'm going to bed. Your rehearsal is early tomorrow because Firmin and André have plans in the evening. Get some rest so that you can rise early."

He turned to leave, and Christine felt panic strike her through. She cleared her throat, and Erik turned slowly back around. Christine rose from the boudoir stool and strode right to him, putting her hands to the front of his white dress shirt. Then she slid her hands up to his shoulders and down over his biceps, over his bare forearms. She linked their fingers together, both hands, and she stared at the shirt's buttons as she whispered,

"I thought of you, and doing so made me cry out for you."

Suddenly his breath was quick and ragged, and he said from above her,

"Christine, if I don't leave _right now_ , we'll both regret -"

"I felt euphoria," Christine murmured, and he squeezed her fingers with both hands.

"No. Don't tell me that," he choked out. Christine's face felt hot as she blinked, still staring at his buttons.

"I used my fingers. That's all it took, just a little touch and thoughts of you, and I -"

He released her hands and seized her face, cutting her off with a crushing kiss. Christine moaned against his bloated, scarred lips, wanting so badly to just tear off the damned mask and wig. She wanted _Erik_ right now. She wanted him badly. She seized his forearms in her hands and sank her fingers into the tightly muscled flesh there. She started to walk towards her bed, still kissing him hard, but he broke away and dragged the back of his wrist over his mouth. He shook his head wildly and said,

"Christine, the last thing you need right now is a bastard in your belly. You're just beginning your career as a _prima donna._ The time for that will come when you've got… when you…"

His face twisted with an emotion that Christine couldn't pin down until he whispered,

"When you marry someone."

"I'm not getting married, Erik," Christine informed him. He shut his eyes and gulped, the distorted tissue on his neck flexing strangely.

"Someday you'll be far too grand for a ghost like me," he mumbled. "I'm going to bed. You need to do the same."

"At least hold me during the night?" Christine begged him, but he shook his head and informed her,

"You are far too much, and I feel no restraint at the moment."

Christine frowned, for she thought he was being remarkably restrained. He was rejecting her advances. That was how restrained he was. But when he leaned down to kiss her carefully, a little bit of him evidently cracked. His hands went to Christine's waist and touched her through her gauzy nightgown, and his tongue slid into her mouth. After a moment, one of his hands, trembling mightily, crept up her torso and began to gently massage a breast. When he pinched at her peaked nipple through the nightgown's thin material, Christine squealed quietly. More. She wanted more of him, right now. She turned her face from their kiss and looked to the bed, imagining him using his fingers on her the way she'd used her own hand. She imagined touching his manhood - she knew so little about what they looked or felt like. She imagined him without a shirt, her without a nightgown, their bodies pressed together, skin against skin.

"Christine."

She snapped her face back to find that Erik was standing with balled fists at his side and an almost angry expression on his unmasked side.

"Goodnight," he said, quite firmly, as though there was absolutely no room for discussion about the matter of bedtime.

"Goodnight," Christine whispered in reply. "Thank you again for the bath."

"It's your bathtub," he reminded her. "You may have a bath whenever you feel like it."

Christine thought that if she could just think of Erik and touch herself, she'd be wanting baths all the time. She let out a tremulous sigh and asked quietly,

"Are you cross with me? Do you still love me?"

His features softened considerably. He reached to cup her jaw in his hand, and he informed her,

"You are more loved than any woman in prose or history."

He bent down and planted a kiss on her forehead, and then he turned and quickly made his way to the door, muttering over his shoulder,

"Goodnight, Christine. I'll wake you."

It was only after he'd shut the door that she noticed the wall clock against the butter yellow - just like he'd promised.

**Author's Note: Whew! That was a doozy of a chapter, no? I would REALLY appreciate your feedback, and thanks so much for reading!**


	7. Other Acts

Christine woke to the sound of a violin, and on instinct, eyes still shut, she whispered,

"Father?"

But then she remembered where she was - in her Angel's lair - and she blinked her eyes open. The door to the bedroom was still shut, but Erik was very evidently standing just outside in the corridor. Christine listened to him play a beautiful section of Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3. She grinned as she flew out of bed and dashed to the door. She flung it open to see Erik, already dressed and masked for the day, playing with adept skill. Christine stood there and just listened for a long while, until at last Erik lowered the instrument and murmured,

"You need to get dressed and eat breakfast. Early rehearsal today."

"I shall dress at once." Christine stared at him. "You play so beautifully. You always have."

"You really believed in me, didn't you?" Erik tipped his head. "You believed in the Angel of Music."

"Yes." Christine looked away, abashed. "I believed you were sent by my father."

"Your father was remarkably skilled," Erik whispered, and Christine's eyes welled. She nodded and then turned around to walk to her wardrobe, leaving the door open. She heard it shut quietly behind her; Erik obviously was trying to give her privacy. Christine wondered why he felt like that was necessary anymore. He'd helped her strip off her clothes when Joseph Buquet had been killed. He'd touched her, kissed her. He was holding back. She didn't want him to hold back anymore.

Just the same, she hurried to wash her face and scrub her teeth, and she pulled the thick braid of hair apart so that her curls could tumble over her shoulders. She dressed in brown and green raw silk, another beautiful dress from Erik. She slid into brown boots, which she bent to tie. She hurried over to the door that led from her bedroom to the corridor, and she suddenly wondered who did Erik's laundry and kept this place clean. As she entered the kitchen, she suggested,

"May I dust before I leave?"

His eyebrow went up. "Is the house particularly dusty?"

"No, it's just… I want to help around here, if I mean to stay here for any amount of time."

Erik let out a low rumble of a laugh. He shook his head and said, "I'm perfectly capable of cleaning, Christine. If it would make you feel better, have your dresses cleaned by the opera's laundresses."

She sat at the table in the kitchen as Erik brought over two plates, each with a baguette, butter, apple slices, and a chunk of cheese. Christine ate greedily, trying to stay elegant as she devoured the food. She needed to hurry, she thought. Rehearsal was early this morning. She watched Erik eat for a moment, noticing the way he carefully used his fingers to pull off bits of bread and then place the small bites between his lips. When he chewed, his jaw moved strangely. He picked up his glass of water and poured a tiny bit into his mouth instead of sipping normally.

Christine suddenly realised just how profound his disfigurement was. Could he hear out of the hole that he had in place of a real ear? He couldn't see out of one eye. His face and neck consisted of mutilated ridges and divots. His marled mouth made eating difficult. He wore a wig to cover the little wisps of grey hair atop his otherwise bald scalp. And he walked with the slightest limp, as though his hip was out of place. He wore the mask, and he'd been in Persia, apparently. But he'd also talked about being beaten, about having coins thrown at him by spectators.

"Erik," Christine murmured, "Tell me your story."

She'd asked him for a story before, but this time she was more specific. He blinked a few times and stared at her across the table. Finally he folded his hands and tipped his head and said,

"I was born to a woman who was so horrified by my appearance that she refused to name me. I spent time with gypsies; I was a freak. I was whipped. I was shown to onlookers greedy to behold a demon."

"Erik…" Christine's eyes welled with fresh tears. Erik scoffed.

"I traveled the world. I learnt architecture, illusion, music. I wound up in Persia, working for the Shah himself. I came back to Paris with dreams of designing this very opera house. I made a deal with Garnier to help finish it, and I built my home here when I did."

"Oh." Christine felt breathless then. She shut her eyes and opened her mouth to say something, but Erik informed her roughly,

"You must get upstairs, my dear. The Countess will be late for rehearsal."

* * *

"Oh, Meg. This opera has such ridiculous costumes." Christine stared into the mirror at the towering white wig that she had to wear to play the Countess. Meg's wig, as an auxiliary cast member, was more subtle. But Meg appeared beside Christine and argued,

"We do look silly, don't we?"

"Stop moving, if you please, Miss Daaé," barked the seamstress at the hem of Christine's rococo gown. The seamstress had pins in her mouth and was sticking them periodically into a fold at the hem where the dress needed to be shortened. Christine was quite petite for a ballet dancer, but she wasn't a dancer anymore. She was a singer now. Christine stared into the mirror at herself and Meg and giggled again, somewhat madly.

Rehearsal today had gone swimmingly, with Christine's voice ringing through the opera house as they rehearsed scene after scene. She had most of the music memorised at this point. _Il Muto_ was a ridiculous farce of a show, but the managers seemed confident they would sell it out. Today, Christine had seen Monsieur Firmin watching the rehearsal from Box Three, and her eyes had flicked over to Box Five. She hadn't seen Erik, but that hadn't meant he wasn't there. He was always hiding, Christine thought.

"So," said Nadine from behind Christine, "What do you think happened to Joseph Buquet? He wasn't here today, either."

Christine glanced over her shoulder to where Nadine was getting her own gown adjusted by a seamstress. Meg said stoutly as she arranged a loose curl in her wig,

" _Maman_ says Buquet had gambling debts. I'll bet someone came and got him over money."

"Well, I'm only sorry I never got the chance to pay him back," Nadine said, and Christine could hear the thickness in her voice, as though she were stifling tears. "He was a wretched man."

Christine desperately wished for a change of topic in conversation. She huffed a breath and then complained,

"This corset is too tight. I won't be able to sing properly with it like this. _Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah…_ see? I'm weaker and more breathy. The Maestro won't like it."

_Neither will Erik_ , she thought.

One of the seamstresses walked over to Christine and began unbuttoning the back of the rococo gown. She pushed it off the front of Christine's shoulders and bared her arms, then loosened the strings of the corset considerably. Christine was worried the gown wouldn't fit now, but when the seamstress brought the costume back up, it buttoned fine.

"Try again," insisted Meg, and Christine sang out, " _Poor fool, he makes me laugh. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ha-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Time I tried to get a better better half._ "

Meg shook her head and said, "How envious I am of your beautiful voice, Christine."

"What do the ballet costumes look like for Act III?" asked Christine. Meg smiled a little and said,

"They're green and pink peasant dresses. We have these ridiculous arcs of silk roses that we have to wave about. _Maman_ says this opera is garish."

Christine laughed a little and then asked, "Are you looking forward to tonight? With Raoul?"

"I would be," Meg said glumly, "but I really haven't got anything to wear. I'd borrow an evening gown from Eloise; she's got such fine clothes. But she's four inches taller than me, and thinner."

"I've got the perfect thing for you," Christine gushed. "When we're done here, I'll go fetch it and bring it up to you."

Suddenly she froze. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror, her mouth open like a fish. Meg scowled.

"Up… erm… up to the ballet dormitories," Christine said, too quickly. Meg nodded and smiled.

"If you really don't mind me borrowing one of the dresses _he_ got you. You don't suppose he'd be angry?"

"No! He won't be angry. You're Madame Giry's…" Christine trailed off. She was saying so much. Why was she giving so much away? She cleared her throat. "He won't mind."

"If you're certain," Meg said. "I'd appreciate it."

Twenty minutes later, the seamstress had finished pinning Christine's hems and she'd been helped out of the overly-elaborate costume. Her hair was still In a tight bun atop her head when she dashed down the corridor to her dressing room. She pried open the mirror-door, carrying an oil lamp with her as she pulled the door shut. She dashed down the stairs as quickly as she could without tripping. She made it all the way through the tunnel on her own, for she was practically running, and by the time she reached the lake's shore, she was wholly out of breath. The gondola was coming under the portcullis, with Erik at the rear, and Christine waved like a maniac to him. She heard him laugh a little, and she called out,

"I've come to fetch a gown. I have to loan it to Meg. I hope that's all right."

"Meg Giry?" The boat pulled up backward against the shore, and Christine scrambled so quickly to get into the boat that she almost fell into the water.

"Yes, Meg Giry," Christine giggled. Erik began to punt the boat, and he said down to her,

"You are in a merry little mood, my dear. Why? Not that I mind your giddiness, of course."

"Oh, it's just… well, rehearsal went very well. I was praised by the Maestro and by the managers. My costume is almost ready. And, of course, I'm so happy about Meg and Raoul."

"Raoul." Erik sniffed. "That prig of a vicomte who asked you out to dinner the night of _Hannibal?_ "

"Yes, that Raoul." Christine turned over her shoulder. "He's lost interest in me, apparently, but he's got all manner of interest in Meg."

Erik was silent for a moment, staring straight ahead, and for a long while, Christine wondered what she'd done wrong. As they passed under the portcullis, Christine hesitantly asked, "Are you cross that I offered her an evening gown?"

"Not at all," Erik replied. "It's just… he was at rehearsal today. I saw him watching you."

"But Raoul wants Meg," Christine insisted. "They had a wonderful dinner and now they're going dancing."

"That boy's eyes were locked on you the entire time you were on stage… _including_ times when Meg was acting or dancing."

"Well, too bad for him," Christine snapped. "I'm already taken."

"Are you?" Erik's voice was quiet as they pulled up against the far shore. He huffed a breath and said, "I'll wait here. You go get the evening gown."

He helped Christine out of the gondola and stood silently in the boat. As Christine dashed up to the house, she glanced over her shoulder and saw her masked teacher staring at her. She flashed him a winning grin and then ran into the house, dashing through the corridor and into her butter yellow bedroom. She pulled open the wardrobe and flicked through the dresses Erik had bought her. She paused at the lilac satin off-shoulder gown, with its plum-coloured embroidery, deciding that it was perfect for Meg with her blonde ringlets. She pulled the gown off the hanger and draped it over one arm. She ran out of her room and back out of the house, down the shore and towards the gondola. Erik held up a hand and said,

"We'll go up the way that leads to the wings. It will be less conspicuous than you coming out of your dressing room with a gown from _home_."

"Oh." Christine nodded. "Erm… I've never gone up to the wings."

"This way, my dear." Erik led her across the shore of the lake to the far side of the rocks, and then Christine saw a small opening. Erik sighed and said, "Allow me to carry the gown; I'll keep it clean and your hands will be free for climbing."

"Climbing?" Christine's eyes went wide. Erik pulled the gown off of her arm and folded it carefully, tucking it into his jacket and securing it with the strap of a brace. He said in a low voice,

"Follow me."

Then he crouched and disappeared into the rocks.

Christine gasped but tried to follow him, realising this was a sort of cave. She had to bend a bit to walk, and the sides brushed her shoulders. It was so claustrophobic that she felt panic in her lungs. She reached out and felt Erik's back in front of her, but it was pitch-black and she couldn't see him. After what felt like an eternity of walking through the cave, Christine felt something clasp around her wrist. Erik's hand. She let him lead her forward a few steps, her boots scuffing on stone ground, and then her wrist was guided to what felt like a metal tube. She brought her other hand up and searched blindly, and finally she realised it was a ladder. She raised her boot and sought out a rung, and once she settled herself on the ladder, Erik's voice said softly,

"Climb. Stop when you need rest."

Up and up and up Christine climbed. One foot, one hand, next foot, next hand. Up and up she went until her arms were aching and her thighs burned badly. She was breathless when she finally whispered down to Erik,

"How much further?"

"We're close," he promised. She kept climbing, and then suddenly there was light. It was dim light, lantern light, coming in from the ceiling. Christine looked up and saw ropes and rolled scrim, and she could tell they were coming up from the floor of the wings. They would be deserted right now, she knew; no one would be rehearsing. Just the same, she was unsurprised to hear Erik command her,

"Listen for footsteps or voices before you push off the grate."

_Push off the grate?_ Christine blinked rapidly and kept climbing. She finally reached a heavy wrought iron grate that looked just like the others in the floors of the wings. She paused, listening and hearing only silence. She pushed up as hard as she could, almost falling backward into the long descent below. But she finally eked the grate off its position and heaved herself up onto the black wooden floorboards. She stared down into the grate to see Erik holding up the purple evening gown.

"Go give this to Meg and come back," he said. "I'll wait here. Going down is easier than coming up; I promise."

"Thank you." Christine took the gown and shoved the grate back into position. She cleared her throat as she looked around, seeing no one at all in the dark theatre. She went out the back of the wings and climbed the wooden staircase that led to the ballet dormitories. She knocked on the door of the bedroom she used to share with Meg, and after a moment, Meg's face appeared in the threshold.

She'd put on cosmetics, Christine could see, and she'd styled her hair in an elegant updo. She wore a simple pearl pendant around her neck, and Christine felt badly that she didn't have any jewellery to give to Meg to wear. She unfolded the evening gown and held it up for Meg to behold. Meg gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth.

"My God, Christine. He bought you _that?_ "

"Will it do?" Christine asked worriedly, and Meg giggled like a madwoman.

"It's beyond perfect. Raoul will think I'm… you know, he won't look at me as just a ballet rat."

"I think Raoul looks at you like you're a beautiful young woman who charms him," Christine asserted, but then she remembered what Erik had said about Raoul watching Christine during rehearsal. So he had been somewhere, looking on. And he'd seen Raoul gazing up at Christine from his spot in the orchestra seats. But Meg and Raoul could be very happy together, couldn't they? Christine sighed and told Meg firmly,

"Steal his heart and hold it close. He'll make you his, Meg. Who's your chaperone?"

"Erm… I'm going without one. Even _Maman_ said that dancing with a vicomte was best done alone. If I want him to… you know… gain interest."

Christine raised her eyebrows. Madame Giry had always held lofty aspirations for Meg, but they'd never truly extended beyond the opera house, as far as Christine knew. Now there was the chance of Meg getting swept up by the aristocracy, and Christine thought to herself that, yes, the dancing was probably best done alone.

"You can give me the gown back tomorrow at rehearsal," Christine said. "I can't wait to hear all about it. I want to hear _everything._ "

Meg laughed, and her features warmed considerably. "Thank you, Christine. My one true friend. The truest friend I'll ever have."

Christine cupped Meg's jaw and leaned forward as she whispered again,

"Steal his heart, Meg. I have to go. The Angel of Music mustn't be kept waiting."

* * *

Christine was dusty and sweaty by the time she and Erik made it back to the house on the lake shore. She took another bath after dinner, grateful for the ability to scrub her hair and skin with Castile soap in the hot water. She didn't dare touch herself this time, too afraid she'd cry out for Erik again and give herself away.

Once her bath was finished, Christine braided her hair and pulled on a beautiful lace-trimmed nightgown with a pale blue bow at the neckline. She came padding out of the bathroom and heard the soft tinkling of a piano. She walked slowly towards the music room, and once she was in there, she saw Erik sitting on the piano bench in his white dress shirt and braces. His jacket was strewn over the arm of a chair beside the piano, as were his cravat and bow tie. Christine sighed. They'd grown so comfortable around one another, she thought. She liked that. She liked _him_. And he'd told her his truth, and he knew her better than just about anybody. And here he was, playing the piano as she stood freshly bathed, running her fingers over her braid. This felt intimate, Christine thought. It felt like home.

He finished the nocturne he'd been playing, and Christine applauded softly. He turned over his shoulder to look at her, and she asked quietly,

"Will you play whilst I sing?"

"What would you like to sing, my dear?" asked Erik. Christine sighed.

"Do you remember the song you wrote for my birthday last year?"

"Of course I do." Erik pressed his fingers to the keys and thudded out a few chords. Christine began to sing mellifluously despite her long hours of rehearsal.

" _Sei un fantasma per me, un angelo per me. Il mio angelo della musica. Il tuo cuore batte per me. I tuoi occhi bruciano per me. La tua anima si confonde con la mia. Insieme per sempre. Insieme per sempre."_

Christine was not fluent in Italian, but she knew enough to comprehend the lyrics now. You are a ghost to me, an angel to me. My Angel of Music. Your heart beats for me. Your eyes burn for me. Your soul melds with mine. Together forever, together forever.

She let out a shaking breath as Erik finished the song's chords. She waited for him to stand and turn, and then she whispered to him,

"Please take off your mask."

He shocked her then by not hesitating. He just peeled the mask and wig off and set them down on the piano bench. His breath shook in his misshapen nostrils as he approached Christine. She gulped hard and thought back to when he'd had her pressed up against the wall in here.

"Christine," whispered Erik, and his eyes were profoundly sad. "I love you."

"Erik." She started to back out of the music room, and she beckoned to him. "Come with me."

"No," he mumbled. "No, I mustn't…"

"There are other things," Christine insisted. "Other acts which can bring pleasure."

"Oh?" Erik started to follow her out of the room then. He looked amused. "And how do you know that?"

"The ballet rats run around with patrons and whisper about it when it's dark in the dormitories," Christine said with a smile. She watched Erik gulp, and then he asked,

"Do you speak of these acts from your own experience?"

"Erik… there was only you. My Angel of Music. How could I have… don't you know that your whispering voice sustained me?"

"My room," he murmured, and Christine froze outside his door. For some reason, she was intimidated by his dark space. She'd slept in there once, but now she felt nervous. She let Erik open the door to the bedroom, and she followed him inside.

"Come onto the bed with me," Erik told her, and Christine obeyed. She realised that she had very little notion of what exactly the ballet girls had done with the patrons. Elisabet had sworn up and down that she'd taken a manhood in her mouth to pleasure a patron. No one had believed her, because it seemed like such a dirty act. Nicole had said that a man had used his fingers between her legs, and now that Christine had touched herself in the bathtub, she was more like to believe that story. But Christine had no idea what Erik had planned for the two of them tonight.

He kicked off his shoes and climbed up onto his dark bed. Christine followed him up and, as he lay on his back, she asked anxiously,

"What should I do?"

"Come here," murmured Erik. He yanked at the hem of her nightgown and pulled at her left thigh. Christine got the hint and finally straddled Erik's hips. She put a hand on either side of his shoulders and leaned down, desperate for a kiss. He took her face in his hands and whispered,

"Beautiful creature. Don't you know I adore you?"

"Erik." Christine brushed her lips over the destroyed half of his face, and he sucked in air hard. Christine planted kisses along his scarred forehead, his sunken cheek, his swollen lips. He pulled her face closer and urged her to kiss him more urgently, which she gladly did. Her tongue met his in his mouth, pushing and pulling slowly. His tongue then dragged over the roof of her mouth, and he nibbled her bottom lip with his sharp teeth. Christine let out a little noise against his mouth, pulling back just enough to mutter,

"I like kissing you."

"My God, to hear you say such a thing to me." Erik shut his eyes and drove his head back against the pillow. Christine felt firmness beneath her; he was growing hard between his legs. The rigid lump under Christine grew more obvious by the second, until it pressed against her womanhood in a way that made her tingle from head to toe. She kissed Erik again, this time with even more vigour, and she felt herself becoming wet and swollen between her legs. The warm wetness forming there would get all over his trousers, she fretted, and she pulled away from the kiss to worry aloud,

"I'll mess your clothes."

"Not nearly so badly as I will," he said with a cough of a laugh. Christine wondered just what he meant by that, but then she remembered Elisabet saying that men produced a sticky, creamy fluid when they found satisfaction. Would that get all over his clothes, Christine wondered?

Very much on instinct, she began to sway her hips. She rocked them back and forth over his hardened member, and she gasped. Oh, that felt good. That felt very good. She stayed leaning forward, for the angle was just right to stimulate her nub against the wool of Erik's trousers. She moved her hips up and down the length of the shaft she could feel, up to the tip, and back again.

"Oh, Christine!" Erik arched his back a little, his hands tightening on her face until it almost hurt. She rocked her hips again and whispered,

"This feels like what happened in the bathtub. It feels so good, Erik. I don't want to stop."

"No, don't stop," Erik choked out. He shut his eyes tightly and his teeth clenched. Christine felt an ache in her breasts, heavy and insistent, as though they _needed_ to be touched. She reached up and dragged Erik's wrist down from her face, planting his hand on her breast. He massaged her through the thin material of the nightgown, cupping the soft tissue underneath and then pinching a little at her puckered nipple. Christine moaned rather loudly at that, at the combined sensation of moving atop his erect manhood and of him caressing her chest. She bent to kiss him again, but this time he barely kissed back. He just groaned and let her tongue explore his mouth, let her bite his lip like he'd done to her earlier. His hand compressed almost roughly around her breast, and he started to move his hips just a little. He was shifting to improve the angle, Christine thought, and then all of a sudden she saw spots. She was grinding against him _just so_ , the lips of her entrance and her sensitive clit rubbing perfectly against his erection.

She kept up the kissing and the grinding for about thirty more seconds, but then she started to feel that tightening feeling she'd felt in the bathtub. She wrenched her mouth from Erik's and sat up, swiveling her hips and pushing forward and down, up and back. She let her braid fall heavily over one shoulder but tipped her head back, her mouth falling open as she whispered frantically,

"Erik, I'm going to… to…"

"Yes," he hissed. His hands went straight to her waist, and he made her grind harder than ever. "Yes, Christine. I want you to feel that bliss for me. Feel it for _me_."

They locked gazes for a moment, but then Christine couldn't keep her eyes open. She stopped moving and felt everything detonate inside of her. Her womanhood cinched and tightened against Erik's trousers, and her hands trembled where she had planted them on his chest. Her ears rang, there was heat - so much heat! It began to fade, the bliss Erik had wanted her to feel, but when she opened her eyes and looked down at him, his face was contorted.

" _Oh…_ Christine. Christine. Christine." He chanted her name over and over as his hands clenched on her little waist. He was finishing, too, she thought. The good half of his face went tomato red, and he grunted a few more times before he whispered to Christine breathlessly,

"Climb off, just in case."

"In case of what?" Christine demanded, her voice hoarse as she removed herself from him on shaking legs. She lay down on his blankets and heard him say,

"You're too young to be anywhere near my seed, Christine."

"Oh." She frowned. Was that creamy, sticky fluid in his trousers right now? There did appear to be a damp spot. Would it put a child on her to touch it? She felt so ignorant, and yet she felt like she'd learnt something awfully important tonight. She'd learnt how to find and give pleasure with another person.

"I wish we could go dancing," Christine said as Erik climbed off of his bed.

"Dancing," he repeated, making his way to his wardrobe. He opened it and pulled out a nightshirt, and he said quietly,

"I'll be back in a few moments. You can go ahead and get under those blankets; if you wish."

She smirked as he left the room. He wanted her to sleep with him. She let out a tremulous sigh. What _was_ this, this mysterious thing between them? He loved her. He'd said that he loved her, over and over. Surely he meant it if he'd been teaching her for years and then had built her a place in his home. Surely he had really fallen in love with her. But what did she think of him?

The word _love_ throbbed inside of her skull as she listened to his sink running water in the bathroom. He had all the possible modern amenities in this house. He was a genius, she thought. An architect, an illusionist, an artist, a musician. And his pastry baking was top-notch, too. Why should she care if he had a ruined face? Of what matter was that? Her Angel of Music was a man, a man who made her happy.

_Love._

Christine shut her eyes and snuggled beneath the blankets, facing the centre of the bed. Then she heard footsteps approaching, and as he climbed into the bed, Erik asked,

"Now, what's all this about dancing?"

"Meg went dancing with Raoul," Christine reminded him. "In an evening gown and everything. I wish I could go dancing with you."

He stared at her as he arranged himself beneath the blankets.

"I think you know why that's not possible."

"Even with your mask?" asked Christine, and he just gave her a sad look.

"I am not fit for society, and society is not fit for me," he said. Christine shut her eyes and whispered,

"I just want to shout from the rooftops that I'm yours. That I… that I…"

"That you what, Christine?" asked Erik, his voice just a little stern. Christine opened her eyes, looking first to Erik's pale, blind eye and then to his dark good one. She huffed.

"That I love you."

His mouth fell open, and he blinked a few times. He shook his head against the pillow and muttered,

"You don't know what you're saying. You're speaking out of lust, because you and I just -"

"No, Erik. I feel it. I feel love for you." Christine gave him a solemn look. He wet his bloated lips and looked like there was something he wanted to say, but his eyes welled over and a trickle of tears started to worm their way down his face. One tear ran over the rivers of stretched white skin on the marled side of his face; the other tear coursed down his nose.

He was crying. She'd made him cry. She felt terribly about that, and she reached on instinct for his face. Her fingers curled around the 'bad' side, and she pressed her lips to his once, twice, three times before murmuring onto his mouth,

"Erik, I love you."

"Oh, Christine." His whispering breath shook so badly then that Christine's own eyes burned. She kissed him again and whispered,

"Let's sleep."

"I'd like to hold you," he choked out, and Christine let him roll onto his back and pull her up against him. She put her head between his arm and chest, and he curled his arm around her. She cast her left arm over his chest and let her food drag up his leg before settling on the sheets.

"Careful, my dear, or there will be a second round of play," Erik warned. Christine giggled a little, unsure of why they couldn't just bring each other to ecstasy all night long. But she was worn out by the encounter they'd had, and she settled against him as sleep took her over. In the last wisps of consciousness, her mind went to Meg and Raoul. Were they still waltzing the night away, she wondered? She'd have to ask Meg in the morning… after waking beside Erik.

**Author's Note: Thank you so very much for continuing to read this story. I value your feedback immensely.**


	8. Wax

"Good morning, beauty."

Christine blinked her eyes open and found herself staring right at Erik's mutilated face. She gave him a little smile and whispered,

"Good morning, Erik. My angel."

He pet her hair and kissed her forehead. "Did you mean it?"

Christine shut her eyes. She knew what he meant. Did she love him? She'd said that she loved him. She thought of him appearing in her mirror, of him guiding her down, down, down. Punting the gondola across the lake to his home. She thought of her dresses, the ribbons for her hair, the sleigh bed in her butter yellow room. She thought of him waking her with organ music, of him playing the violin, singing to her. She thought of his cream puffs, of him delicately feeding them to her. She thought of riding his erection and feeling euphoria. She thought of falling asleep beside him, into a deep and dreamless sleep.

"Yes," Christine said firmly. "I love you."

Erik sighed deeply and kissed Christine's cheekbones. "I have a confession to make, Christine."

They met one another's gazes again, and she whispered, "What is it?"

She felt profound unease all of a sudden, as his face went serious. Christine's heart accelerated in her chest a bit.

"What's wrong, Erik?"

He sat up slowly, and she followed him up. He stared right at her, and he murmured, "Christine, I have been dreaming of your affections for some time. You know that. You know that I have longed for you."

Christine's skin prickled. "Yes," she said slowly.

"There is something I've been hiding from you," Erik said, his voice laced with caution. "Something I have been wanting to show you ever since you first descended the steps from your dressing room."

Christine pulled the blanket up around her chest to conceal herself, suddenly feeling immensely concerned. What had he been hiding?

"Come with me," Erik said, climbing out of the bed. Christine hauled herself off the mattress and walked hand-in-hand with him into the corridor. He led her into the parlour, and she asked him,

"What have you been keeping from me, Erik?"

Suddenly Erik pulled away and walked over to the damask wallpaper. He pushed on a spot, and then he yanked it hard to the left. It was a sliding door, hidden in the wall. Christine gasped. She knew he was an illusionist, a gifted architect. Was this secret door what he'd been hiding from her?

"That's very impressive," Christine said softly. Erik let out a trembling breath and said gently,

"The surprise is in here, Christine. Come closer."

She felt very ill at ease all of a sudden, but she walked closer to the opening in the wall. As she got closer, she could see the flash of white lace. She frowned and stepped even closer, and then she gasped and staggered backward.

Inside the door was a full-sized mannequin whose face had been moulded and painted to look just like Christine herself. The mannequin wore a wig of dark curls that mimicked Christine's. And, perhaps most fearfully, the mannequin was clad in an elaborate white wedding gown.

Christine's breath left her for a long moment as she stared at the mannequin. Her eyes welled as she began to panic. Erik had been hiding _this?_ She whirled towards him and demanded,

"How long has this been here?"

He shrugged. "A year, perhaps."

"A _year?_ " Christine practically shrieked. She shook her head wildly and threw up a hand before her. "You are insane. You are a madman."

He looked shocked, truly shocked, by her reaction, and he whispered in a helpless sort of voice,

"Christine…"

"You spent years watching me, pretending to be my Angel of Music. I forgave that much and fell in love with you. But this, Erik? This is obscene."

Erik blinked. He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled something out, and Christine tensed up. Erik approached her and genuflected, kneeling before her as he took her left hand in his right one. Suddenly Christine realised he was sliding a ring onto her finger, and she recoiled violently. She thought about running through the cave and climbing the ladder up to the wings. She thought about screaming to everyone in the opera house that she knew exactly who and what the Phantom of the Opera was.

"All of this, Christine - the bedroom, the dress, the ring - all of this was just the product of dreams run amok. I let my mind run wild with thoughts of you. I became obsessed; I confess it. But that obsession has shifted into genuine love. I love you, Christine Daaé. I really and truly love you. I wanted to show you this today because -"

"Because you think the right way to get a woman to marry you is to show her a wax figure of herself dressed up as a bride? Because you try to put a ring on her finger that you bought for her before you ever really met her? Erik… you are mad."

She scrambled backward, right into an armchair. Erik stayed on one knee, the engagement ring in his hand. "I only wanted you to stay with me," he choked out. "I only wanted you to truly love me, Christine."

"I am going to dress," Christine said firmly, "and then I will go up to the wings myself."

She walked around the armchair and stormed out of the parlour. She went back into her butter yellow bedroom and began shoving things into her carpet bag. Her old comb and mirror, her toothbrush and tooth powder, her old dresses from the wardrobe in the ballet dormitories. She dressed as expeditiously as she could in the old blue dress she'd brought down here the day she'd been given the role in _Il Muto._ She slid on her worn, flat shoes and stamped out of the bedroom, leaving behind everything Erik had bought for her.

She'd descended into madness because of him, she thought. She'd been staying in his underground lair like it was a home. She'd been indecent with him, on more than one occasion, and they'd brought one another to ecstasy. He'd spent years hiding, pretending… _tricking_ her. Deceiving her. Preying upon her grief and her innocence. He was just as much a predator as Joseph Buquet, Christine thought wildly. She slammed the bedroom door shut as she went out into the corridor. She found Erik by the front door of the house, having retrieved his wig and mask, and he held up both hands as he said in a desperate voice,

"I did not expect you to be upset about this, Christine. I thought it would show you how much I have cared for you… how deeply I love you. Christine, I love you!"

"Please move out of my way," she growled, and when he didn't move, she shoved roughly at his arm. She flung open the door and burst past him, walking on the damp stone floor until she reached the hole that led to the tunnel. She had no light; she would have to do this in the darkness and carry her carpet bag up the ladder. She had precisely no idea how she was going to manage, but she couldn't care. She needed to leave.

"Let me take you across the lake," said a voice from behind her. "I'll leave you at the tunnel. You'll need a lamp to safely climb the stairs."

Christine only then realised that she had tears streaming down her cheeks. She whirled around to see Erik had followed her onto the shore. She hesitated, looking at the gondola for a moment, but she finally snapped,

"Fine. Take me across the lake so I can go upstairs. I'm never coming back down here."

"Christine…" Erik's face fell. He shut his eyes and whispered, "I was dreaming. I was alone and I was dreaming of you. I let my mind run wild with hopes that you… that someday…"

"I've told you, Erik, that I am not getting married," Christine said. "And if you honestly think I would simply roll over and accept the idea of a mannequin of _me_ wearing a wedding dress, well… you're not the genius I thought you were."

"I'll take you back," Erik nodded. He stalked over to the gondola. Christine tried to climb in on her own, but her foot slid on a bit of algae and she almost fell. Erik caught her up in his arms and gently guided her onto the red velvet seat. Christine said nothing as he began to punt the boat towards the portcullis.

He had awakened her with kisses, with violin music, with the thudding of his organ. Thoughts of him had made her finish in the bathtub. He'd bought her expensive gowns and shoes and corsets; he'd built her an elaborate wood-paneled bathroom. Was that love? Were the things he'd done acts of love, or were they signs of an obsession? Christine couldn't be certain. What she did know was that she needed her best friend right now.

Once they reached the far shore of the lake, Erik helped Christine out of the gondola and handed her the oil lantern he'd grabbed off the sconce in the house's corridor. Christine held it by the ring on the side, and she tipped her chin up.

"I can make it from here."

"Christine," Erik said, and she saw now that his face was red and tear-streaked, "May I have one kiss goodbye?"

She hesitated. He was obsessed with her. He'd built her a space in his home because he'd wanted to lure her down and keep her forever. He had an engagement ring for her. He had a wax figure of her in a wedding gown.

"One kiss," she whispered, shutting her eyes. She felt the press of bloated, disfigured lips on hers, but she didn't kiss back. When she opened her eyes, Erik was holding a single red rose, tied with a black ribbon, out to her. Where had he gotten that from, she wondered? He was an illusionist, after all. He performed Dark Magic, she thought.

With great suspicion, she stared up at his masked face and then took the rose out of his hand. She began to cry harder than ever as she whispered,

"Goodbye, Erik."

Then she rushed past him, into the long, winding tunnel that led to the stairs up to the dressing room.

**Author's Note: Sorry for the mini-chapter today; I have been super busy. I'll try to update more quickly this week. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing.**


	9. Stitches

"Christine?"

She turned slowly to the sound of her name to see Meg walking towards her in the wings. Meg looked around and then said hesitantly,

"Your voice today sounds… you sound…"

"Weak," Christine nodded. "I know. I sounded terrible."

"Christine, has something happened?" Meg's blue eyes searched Christine's face.

Christine's own eyes welled heavily. She shook her head and whispered,

"He's not the man I thought he was."

"Your Angel of Music?" Meg fretted. "What's the matter?"

"I can't say." Christine lowered her gaze. Meg touched her shoulder and hissed,

"Are you afraid of him?"

"No! I mean, he would never hurt me," Christine insisted, "but the truth is that he's been obsessed with me - yes, Meg, truly obsessed - since before we met in person. I saw the evidence of that obsession myself."

"What evidence?" demanded Meg. Christine took a shaking breath and finally met her friend's eyes.

"A wax figure of _me_ , dressed in a wedding gown. Hidden in his home for a year."

Meg's eyes practically bugged straight out of her skull. Her mouth dropped open and a palm clapped onto her lips.

"You can't be serious," Meg whispered, looking pale in the lamplight. Someone walked onto the stage, passing nearby with props in hand. Meg and Christine waited until the stagehand was gone, and then Meg grabbed Christine by the shoulders and said, "You must move back into the dormitories. You've no other choice."

"I know," Christine said sadly. "And this evening's a dress rehearsal, and I sound awful, and… well. Everything just feels a bit sideways at the moment."

"I thought you were falling in love with him," Meg admitted. "How wrong I was."

Christine gulped. She had promised Erik early this morning that she did love him, and that proclamation had come after much thought about their time together. Then he'd gone and ruined absolutely everything by showing her the mannequin. It had horrified her. It had made her feel disgust and fear. And so she'd left him, thinking now to herself that she would probably never see him again. Her chest clutched at that thought.

"Girls," snapped a voice, and Meg and Christine whirled to see Madame Giry walking toward them. She held out a small wax-sealed envelope, and she said sharply, "Christine, this is for you. Meg, come with me. We are practising the ballet in Act III before tonight's dress rehearsal."

Christine didn't need to ask who the letter was from. She pulled it out of Madame Giry's hand and said a numb _thank you, Madame._ Meg brushed her fingers against Christine before she hurried away, and Christine realised she hadn't even had the chance to ask Meg how her night of dancing with Raoul de Chagny had gone.

She broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out the folded paper inside. There, in very neat script, was written, _To my most beloved Christine, with the voice and soul of a real angel._

Christine felt tears coming to her eyes, and she huffed a breath before continuing to read.

_My dear Christine, I could never properly express my shame. The utter humiliation I feel at having revealed to you something that you found repulsive drives through my like the sharpest blade. I never wished to hurt you, Christine, not in any way. And, yet, I did hurt you, for I frightened you. I do not want you to be afraid of me, Christine. You saw my face and instead of turning away from it, you kissed me directly upon the mutilation that defiles me. You saw where I have made my home, and you willingly came again and again. Down, down you came to me, until at last you saw the evidence of my obsession. And I see now what that infatuation really was. It was a lonely, disfigured man who had been labeled an angel by a young woman of graceful beauty._

_I see now that I was delusional. You could never really love a monster like me. I should never have shown you the gown, nor tried to put the ring upon your finger. If I hadn't, perhaps you would have stayed with me just a little bit longer before waking up. Perhaps you would have kept on dreaming that your Angel of Music was the man who woke you with kisses. Perhaps you would have turned yourself towards Box Five during a performance to acknowledge your teacher. But now I see that it was all a terrible misconception. I thought, you see, that I was the object of your affections, but now I know that could never be. For I am neither angel nor man, but beast. And you, Christine… you are perfection._

_I shall watch you sing the role of the Countess. And you will be wonderful. You must sing it most beautifully, Christine, so that everyone in the audience will understand the glory of your voice._

_I love you more than ever._

_Erik_

Christine sighed as she read the note a second time and then a third time. She folded the letter back up and shoved it into the envelope. She needed to hide it, she thought. And, anyway, she had to get into costume; the dress rehearsal was starting in an hour. So she slowly made her way to her dressing room, not noticing at first that there were tears streaming down her cheeks. She hadn't noticed herself crying earlier, either. Erik had made her cry twice today, and that was hardly fair, she thought.

Swiping roughly at the tears coming down her face, she strode past a concerned-looking chorus member and down the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Hers was small, for she'd refused to take over the giant, elaborate dressing room La Carlotta had had during her tenure at the Populaire. Christine paused in front of the door to the dressing room. She was taken back, suddenly, to the moment Joseph Buquet had accosted her here. He'd grabbed her breast and had wanted another taste of her. Then Erik had, quite literally, swooped in and taken out Buquet. He'd rescued Christine. Why? Because he loved her, that was why.

Christine turned the doorknob and walked into the dressing room, shutting the door behind her and turning the lock. The last thing she needed right now was someone walking in on her whilst she was in the middle of a costume change. She felt violated enough as it was.

She froze when she entered the dressing room. Hanging on a rack by the wall were all the dresses Erik had bought for Christine. The brown wool, the scarlet and black… there they were, hanging neatly. There was a basket at the foot of the rack with undergarments and boots, and Christine sighed. He'd bothered to bring up all of the things he'd gotten her, even though she'd deliberately left them behind. He simply didn't understand, she thought, how profoundly uncomfortable she'd become at seeing the wax figure of herself dressed in white. He'd taken all that they'd built over their time together and had smashed it, like someone taking a hammer to a mirror.

The mirror.

Christine strode over to the mirror, half-expecting to see the white glint of Erik's mask on the other side. But when she pried open the mirror, the opening beyond was pitch black. There was no one there, she realised. Erik had come to deliver his gifts to her, and he'd given a letter to Madame Giry, but he hadn't stayed. He was somewhere deep in the bowels of the opera house, Christine thought. She shut her eyes and thought of him down there. She swayed a little where she stood as she thought of the mannequin with the wedding dress. She could still feel Erik pushing an engagement ring onto her finger.

Then she remembered him running her a hot bath in the wood paneled bathroom. She thought of his pastries, of kissing him, of sleeping with him, of finding pleasure with him. She thought of his lessons, of the way he'd played piano whilst she'd sung.

She slammed the door shut so hard she thought it would shatter. Whirling around and feeling more tears than ever boiling over her eyes. She spent the next five minutes stripping off her blue dress and hung it up with the dresses Erik had brought up. Standing in her corset and other undergarments, she pulled her _Il Muto_ costume off its rack. She put on the wide panniers and pulled the gaudy dress over her head. She adjusted the three-quarter length sleeves, and she sat at her boudoir.

She used a wooden comb to pull her curls into the tightest bun she could manage. She pulled a net over her head and then put her towering white wig upon her head. She opened the containers of cosmetics on her boudoir and began to paint her face with white cream and rouge.

"Christine?"

Her head snapped to the mirror, and her breath sped up.

"Erik?"

The mirror opened with a _click._ He was standing there, looking breathless.

"My alarms went off; you must have opened the mirror?" He looked like he'd been crying for hours. Christine pinched her lips and insisted,

"I was just making sure you weren't there."

"I see," he murmured. "I won't use this passage."

"Thank you," Christine whispered. She rose from her boudoir and slid on her low-heeled costume shoes. "I have dress rehearsal now."

"Right. Well. Erm… goodbye, Christine."

He started to pull the mirror-door shut, but Christine held out a hand to him and said,

"I got your letter."

There was silence then. Christine stared at him, and finally he mumbled,

"The costume suits you. You look like a _prima donna_ , as well you should."

"Erik, it is not acceptable that you had a wax figure of me dressed up in a wedding gown." Christine tipped up her chin. "It was disturbing to see. There seems to be something sinister about a man who goes to lengths like that. You made me feel unsafe. You made me feel like prey."

"Like prey?" Erik choked out. He shook his head. "No, Christine. I see now that it was macabre. Eerie. I see that. It was stupid of me to make that mannequin; even Daroga told me so, but I -"

"Daroga. Who's Daroga?" Christine snapped.

Erik's good half of his face twisted a little. "He's my friend. The one I sent for your clothing."

"And he told you not to make the figure?" Christine demanded, crossing her arms.

Erik hesitated. "He… erm… he told me that I had better hope you never saw it."

"Well, Daroga was right," Christine sniffed. "If I had never seen it, Erik, I'd be coming through this mirror after dress rehearsal. Instead, I'll be returning to the ballet dormitories and sleeping in a room with Meg Giry."

"I destroyed it," Erik murmured. "I realise you found the dress and the mannequin to be nightmarish. I did not mean to instill terror, but I did. So I melted the wax in my hot water heater, and I -"

"Stop! _Stop!_ " Christine shrieked. "Now you've got me imagining a figure of myself melting in flames! What is the _matter_ with you, Erik?"

He appeared to gulp and shook his head. "Much. They were right, probably, to beat and whip me. They were right to abuse me; I am just a savage fiend, an animal."

"Do not act the victim now," Christine snarled. "I trusted you. For years, I trusted that you were my Angel of Music."

"I showed myself to you because you had grown too old for that scheme," Erik insisted, but Christine shook her head wildly and retorted,

"You showed yourself to me because Raoul asked me to dinner, and you couldn't bear the thought of me with another man."

Erik tipped his head. "That was, admittedly, the straw that broke the camel's back."

There was a long, heavy quiet again. Christine swallowed hard and whispered, "I have to go sing."

His eyes grew wet and red. He nodded. "Sing, beauty."

"Christine!" There was knocking on the dressing room door. "Christine! Are you all right?"

"Coming, Meg!" Christine called back. "Was just getting my makeup on."

Erik lowered his face and pulled back into the darkness behind the mirror. Christine watched him shut the mirror-door with another little _click_ , and then she huffed a breath and went over to the door that led to the corridor. She unlocked the door and opened it, and Meg giggled.

"Oh, that costume." Meg was in her own ensemble, and Christine rolled her eyes.

"You're just angry that your wig doesn't tower as high as mine does."

" _Maman_ said that your letter was very important. Was it from him?"

Christine came walking out into the corridor and pulled her dressing room door shut behind her.

"He was apologising," Christine said truthfully. "He admitted that he became besotted and overreacted to his emotions. He… I don't know what to feel, Meg."

"You must admit to yourself that a mannequin of you in a wedding gown is profoundly disturbing," Meg said as they walked towards the wings. Christine sighed.

"I think that he is a very complicated man who's led a very complicated life," Christine murmured. "He is more troubled than anyone I've ever met. And, yet, I felt such affection for him. Love."

"You really did love him?" Meg asked. Christine shut her eyes.

"Yes. Tell me about Raoul."

Meg smirked and whispered, "He kissed me goodnight. We danced and danced… waltzes and polkas and two-steps. We both had a little too much Champagne, and we kissed in the carriage, and… oh, Christine. He told me I was pretty. He told me that he likes my dancing."

"Oh, Meg," Christine gushed. "I am so happy that you've found Raoul."

"He wanted _you_ ," Meg reminded Christine glumly. "He probably still does."

"No, he wants _you_ , Meg Giry," Christine smiled. Her stomach churned as she remembered Erik first appearing through the mirror after Raoul had insisted on dinner. That had been the flashpoint that had started everything. Christine took a steadying breath, knowing that Erik would be in Box Five tonight. She waited in the wings for her entrance into Act I, Scene I of _Il Muto._

* * *

"Oh, my feet are aching and I'm so tired!" Meg complained as she and Christine milled about in the wings. The dress rehearsal had been long and arduous. Christine's voice was tired and her body was sweaty. Meg gave Christine a meaningful look and whispered,

"You're coming to the ballet dormitories, aren't you?"

Christine bit her lip. "I…"

"Christine," Meg said in a warning voice. "Don't go to him again. He sounds like a monster."

" _Don't - call - him - a - monster,_ " Christine snarled, with an explosive anger. Meg staggered backwards and stared at Christine with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry," Christine whispered. "I don't mean to take it out on you. It's just… he's been called a monster too many times in his life."

Meg frowned and shook her head. "Come to the dormitories, Christine."

Christine put her lips into a flat line and whispered, "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

"Are you really sure about that?"

"I'm sure," Christine asserted. "Go get your costume off and get some rest."

"You do the same," Meg said, raising her blonde brows. Christine turned and walked away without another word. She hurried down the corridor as quickly as she could. As she trotted to her dressing room, she thought over the letter Erik had sent through Madame Giry.

_My dear Christine, I could never properly express my shame. The utter humiliation I feel at having revealed to you something that you found repulsive drives through my like the sharpest blade. I never wished to hurt you, Christine, not in any way. And, yet, I did hurt you, for I frightened you._

Christine flung open her dressing room door and slammed it behind her. She turned the lock and pulled her wig off of her head. She took off her false pearls and stripped off the Countess' dress. She kicked off the low heeled shoes and untied the panniers.

_I see now that I was delusional. You could never really love a monster like me. I should never have shown you the gown, nor tried to put the ring upon your finger. If I hadn't, perhaps you would have stayed with me just a little bit longer before waking up._

She hung everything up and snatched her favourite scarlet and black dress off the rack of dresses. She dressed herself in it with her flat black shoes, and she gathered up the other dresses, putting them in the basket of undergarments and boots. Her hair was still in a bun; she'd forgotten to take it out.

_I thought, you see, that I was the object of your affections, but now I know that could never be. For I am neither angel nor man, but beast. And you, Christine… you are perfection._

Christine snuffed out every sconce and lantern except for one, but then she realised she wouldn't make it down the stairs with the basket and a lantern. Deciding to go in darkness, she pried open the mirror-door, knowing that she would have set off Erik's alarms. But he'd told her that he wouldn't come this way anymore. Christine carried the basket of dresses and undergarments in her arms and pulled the mirror-door shut behind her. She panted with exhilaration and fear and something else as she stepped down a few stairs in the pitch black. She was going to fall, she thought. She had to try not to fall.

Down and down and down she went, thinking of the time Erik had fed her a cream puff and the air between them had tingled with tension. She thought of grinding against him and lying with him in his bed. She thought of the bathtub where she'd found euphoria for the first time to thoughts of him.

Descending ever further, Christine thought about the mannequin. Yes, it had been unnerving. It had been distressing and overwhelming to see herself in a wedding gown hidden in the wall. But was Erik really insane, the way she'd screamed at him that he was? Was he really a madman? Or was he a lonely, broken man in love?

Suddenly she felt the ground go out from under her, and she screamed. She'd tripped in the tunnel, and she dropped the basket of clothes. Her head hit the wall of the tunnel hard as she fell, and she instantly tasted blood in her mouth. She fell face-first onto the tunnel floor, and she cried out in pain. She tried to stand, but as soon as she did, she realised she couldn't even see the basket she'd dropped.

"Erik!" she screamed, and the taste of blood in her mouth grew so disgusting that she spit it out. "Erik! Help!"

It seemed like an eternity, that time spent in the darkness, reaching around blindly and stuffing dresses and boots back into the basket her fingers finally found. Her lip was bleeding badly, she could tell now, and there was a gash by her eyebrow.

"Erik!" she cried out again, wishing he would hear her. She finally determined that she'd gathered up all of her clothes, and she limped - she'd bruised her hip - forward through the tunnel. Finally she saw candlelight, and she walked towards it. She came to the shore of the lake and heard organ music in the distance. She stood on the lake shore and felt blood running down her face and into her mouth.

"Erik!"

A moment later, she heard a voice call, "Christine?"

"Where are you?" Christine yelled. Then, all of a sudden, Erik appeared out of an archway in the stone on the lakeshore. He'd come down to the lake from yet another passage. Christine realised immediately that that was the passage that led to Box Five. It had to be; she'd seen the glint of his mask in the corner of the box during the dress rehearsal.

"My God, Christine; what happened to you?" Erik rushed over to her and reached out like he wanted to touch her but was too afraid to do so. She sucked on her bloodied lip and whispered,

"I fell in the tunnel."

"Why have you come down here?" Erik demanded, looking sceptical.

Christine gazed through the portcullis towards the house. "You said I was always welcome here."

"Well… of course you are," Erik said quietly. "You know I want you here."

"I should be afraid of you," Christine breathed. "I should be horrified."

Erik shook his head. "You need stitches on your forehead. I'll do them for you; I've stitched up more injuries than I can count."

"Is it that bad?" Christine asked, and Erik smirked a little.

"It's that bad, beauty."

Christine huffed a breath. "I shouldn't be here. I should run far, far away from you."

He licked his bloated lips and adjusted his wig and mask a little. "I wouldn't blame you."

"Instead I've come back down here to be with you," Christine sighed. She remembered the last line of his letter. _I love you more than ever._ Christine chomped her lip hard and whispered, "Erik, I love you."

"Beautiful creature," Erik said, and his eyes seemed to boil over at once. "How very sorry I am to have offended and frightened you."

"Perhaps," Christine suggested, "We could agree to never speak of it again, and you could promise not to do anything like that again."

"I quite like that idea," Erik agreed. He gestured to the gondola. "You'll be wanting a bath as soon as your stitches are done."

* * *

Christine sat in the bathtub, cloudy from soap, and shut her eyes. She should not have come back down here, she thought. She should never have come back to him. But she did love him. She couldn't help it. She reached up and felt the seven stitches Erik had put along her eyebrow. He'd been so gentle doing them. He'd carefully pushed and pulled the needle and had hushed Christine's crying. Then he'd wrapped her up in his arms and daubed at the wound with a wet cloth. Her lip, he'd said, would heal quickly on its own. He'd washed off her stage makeup before stitching her up, and it had felt very intimate. It had felt like a balm, his touch upon her.

"Erik?" she called quietly, very much on instinct. He didn't answer her, so she called again, "Erik?"

A few moments later, his voice sounded from the other side of the door.

"Do you need something, my dear?"

Christine's heart fluttered and her breath hitched as she gathered courage. She licked the wound on her lip and said firmly,

"Come in here, please."

There was a long silence - his hesitation, she knew. But then the bathroom door slowly opened, and Erik came walking in, his eyes going everywhere but the bathtub. He was down to his white dress shirt and braces, and he'd rolled up his sleeves to stitch up Christine's face. She swallowed hard and asked,

"Will you sit with me?"

"In here?" Erik seemed terrified. Christine sat up a little in the water, making it splash and revealing the top swell of her breasts.

"Erik…" she beckoned, and he shut his eyes for a moment. She saw him clench his fists at his sides, and then he walked over to the bathtub. He sank down to sit on the tile beside the tub, and he reached to touch the pads of his fingers on the water. He was examining her, she knew. He could only see so much with the water as soapy as it was, but he could see the shape of her form and most of her breasts. Christine stared at his face as his eyes moved up and down her body, as his fingers dragged through the water.

"Erik," Christine whispered. "I don't like being afraid of you."

"I don't like that, either," he murmured back. His good side was turned away, and Christine found herself staring at his mask.

"I'm ready to get out now," Christine informed Erik. He nodded and made a move to stand, to leave. Christine plucked up her courage as ferociously as she could, and she asked, "Will you get a towel for me?"

Erik looked shocked when he met Christine's face. But he wordlessly pulled off a towel from a rack on the wall. It was plush and white, and he held it out toward Christine. But she didn't take it. She pulled the rubber stopper from the drain and set it aside, and as the water began to flush out, she pulled herself up to stand. Soaking wet, Christine stepped out of the tub and walked naked towards Erik.

She wanted him to know that she wasn't a doll.

He wrapped her in the plush white towel once she reached him, helping her get it around her torso and hips and then tucking it into itself. His mangled throat bobbed, and he whispered,

"You said you wanted to dance with me."

Christine smiled sadly. "It was a fleeting idea. Jealousy of Meg."

"Well," Erik said softly, "I don't want you to be jealous of Meg Giry. May I have this dance, Miss Daaé?"

He held out his hand, which was visibly trembling. Christine giggled softly and shrugged.

"What, here in the bathroom with me in a towel? WIth no music?"

"Who said there would be no music?" Erik demanded. He put his hand to Christine's waist and brought up her other hand. Christine felt her breath escape her as she put her other hand on his shoulder. Erik began to hum then, a slow and beautiful two-step melody that Christine didn't recognise. He must have written it, she thought. He was a true composer. She began to sway with him, staring up at his masked face as he hummed.

"Erik," she whispered after a while, "Don't make me afraid of you anymore. All right?"

Erik faltered for a half second but then nodded. He kept humming until the melody reached its natural end. Christine smiled up at him and felt her eyes burn. He'd stitched her up. He'd watched her sing. He'd danced with her.

"Christine," he said quietly, "I love you so much that it… the ache of it."

He shut his eyes then, and Christine leaned forward and kissed his chest through his shirt. He bent down, and his lips met hers.

"Forgive me," he mumbled against her lips. "Forgive me, Christine."

"We've agreed to never speak of it again," she reminded him. "Now. You must introduce me to this Daroga fellow."

"In the morning, beauty," he promised her. "You need rest."

"In your bed," Christine said stoutly. Erik curled up half his mouth and nodded. "Sleep in my bed, and in the morning you shall meet my old friend."

**Author's Note: Well, looks like everything is going swimmingly now. And we get to meet Nadir Khan. So everything's great and nothing could possibly go wrong, right?**


	10. My Love Is Stronger Than My Fear

Christine awoke to the feel of fingers stroking her hair. She kept her eyes shut and breathed in the scent of leather and paper and ink.

"Angel," she hummed, snuggling closer against him. "Erik…"

"My sweet Christine." He was awfully close, but she still kept her eyes shut. She reached up and touched at his face, feeling ridges and divots of scar tissue. Her fingers brushed over the spot where his ear was meant to be. She studied him blindly, getting to know the place where his cheekbone was caved in, the spot where an angry vein bulged over his forehead. She dragged her fingertips along his misshapen jaw, over its jagged edges, and she whispered,

"I'm sorry I ran away yesterday."

"I'm sorry to have frightened you," he replied. "Let's never speak of it again."

"No, never." Christine wormed her way even closer to him, and then she found herself kissing his lips carefully. He tasted of sleep, but she didn't care. He cast an arm around her to pull her even closer, his fingers burrowing in her curls.

"Christine," he said against her mouth in a heady voice. "Christine…"

"Mmph." She dragged her tongue over his swollen bottom lip and then nibbled just a little there, and he groaned, a low rumble from the bottom of his chest. His fingers tightened in her hair, and she felt him begin to massage her scalp. Christine sucked in air hard through her nostrils and whispered,

"I want to feel you, Erik."

"Christine," he huffed, "I refuse to ruin you."

"Then don't 'ruin' me. Let's just take our nightclothes off, and we can -"

"Have you gone mad?" Erik pulled back a little and seemed genuinely shocked. "Take off our nightclothes? You expect me to keep my composure around you when you haven't even got a nightgown on?"

Christine heaved herself up to sit and tipped her head the way he always did. "I'm sure you'll find a way."

She began to peel off the embroidered nightgown he'd bought for her, and as she did, she remembered that, the night before, she'd neglected undergarments rather deliberately. So as the nightgown came over her head and was dropped on the mattress beside her, her entire bare body was revealed to him. He'd seen her once before without clothes, when she'd stepped out of the bath and had walked over to where he'd held a towel for her.

This morning felt different. Christine felt a crackle of energy between them, and when he reached up with trembling fingers, Christine smirked and grasped his wrist. She brought it to her breast and tipped her head back a little.

"Christine." Erik sat up slowly and cupped the weight of Christine's small, round breast in his palm. His fingers wrapped around the soft tissue, and his eyes shut. "They're perfect."

"Erik, look at me." Christine sighed through her nostrils, feeling heat coil in her belly as Erik massaged her breast. The heat traveled lower as his fingers dragged over the nipple that puckered in response to his touch. Christine gulped and murmured, "A kiss, pelase?"

"Yes." He closed his other hand around her jaw and brought the 'bad' side of his face near. Christine was no longer intimidated by his appearance. She drank up his kiss like she was drowning in the desert, and when he squeezed a little at her breast, she whimpered.

"Beautiful creature," he whispered somewhat desperately against her mouth. Christine felt his knuckles descend over her neck and collarbone, trickling his touch over the swell of her breasts, and she murmured back,

"I have never been touched like this. I am… I don't have any experience."

"Well, neither do I," Erik shrugged, and Christine frowned. He was so much older. He'd been to Persia and Rome and all manner of other places; how could he possibly have so little experience with physical relations? She pursed her lips and let him keep playing with her breasts, and then she asked him,

"Are you… a virgin?"

His cheeks went red at once. His good ear flushed, and the scarlet web of embarrassment went all the way down his neck. He shook his head and whispered,

"No; I mustn't put a bastard on you, Christine."

"You did not answer my question." Christine raised her eyebrows. "Are you a virgin, Erik?"

His throat bobbed. He silently nodded, and Christine smiled just a little.

"Is it funny?" Erik snapped, lowering his hands from her chest. Christine shook her head vigorously and said,

"It isn't funny at all. It's… it puts on a bit more of an equal footing; that's all."

Erik licked his bloated lips and shook his head again.

"I could never do that to you. That's for when you've got a -"

"You had a mannequin in a wedding dress because you wanted me to marry you," Christine mumbled, lowering her eyes. She saw a bulge tenting Erik's nightshirt - his arousal from having touched her breasts, probably.

"We agreed to never speak about that again," Erik huffed. "It's been destroyed."

"The dress, too?" Christine prompted, and Erik was silent. He shook his head again and looked away.

"Please don't do this," he begged. Christine felt her eyes well, hot with tears, and she choked out,

"You kept the wedding gown."

"Christine." Erik chomped hard on his lip and let a tear escape his eye. It made its way down over the ridges and ripples of the destroyed side of his face, and he said softly, "Please. We'd agreed to never speak of it again."

Christine let out a quavering breath and admitted, "It wasn't the idea of marrying you that frightened me. It was the hidden mannequin, the way you plotted in secret for a year before you'd ever shown me your face."

Erik sniffed a bit and said, "I'll burn the dress."

"I'd like to see it," Christine informed him. Erik's eyes snapped up to hers, and his mouth dropped open.

"Why?"

"I'd like to see what you chose for me," Christine reasoned. "The dresses… the scarlet and black dress is my very favourite. But I like all of them. All the dresses you sent Daroga to fetch for me. Was it his taste or yours?"

Erik gulped. He climbed slowly off the bed and walked over to the desk along the wall of his dark bedroom. Sensing that their physical encounter was over, Christine pulled her nightgown back over her head. She slid off the bed and followed Erik over to the desk. He was pulling papers out of a drawer; there was a large folder upon which Erik's script had written neatly, _For Christine._

He opened the folder and began carefully extracting sketches. He placed them, one by one, upon the desk in front of Christine. She recognised the brown wool dress, the purple evening gown, and all the others. There was a page listing undergarments that were needed, from silk stockings to a cotton drill corset. So her new wardrobe had been Erik's idea, then. Suddenly Erik set down a sketch that had been labeled in pencil at the top, _Wedding Gown._ The sketch was amazingly detailed, and Christine's measurements were written on the right side of the page.

"I sent these to dressmakers. My friend took them, with the money I am paid by the opera's managers, and had them made according to my strict specifications. I knew what I wanted."

"What you wanted to see me wear," Christine breathed. She felt dizzy all of a sudden. She shook her head a little and demanded,

"Show it to me, please. The wedding gown."

"Christine." Erik shut his eyes. "I told you… I promised you. I'll burn it."

"I'd like to try it on," Christine said. Anxiety rippled through her core, making her stomach quaver and her breath hitch in her chest. Erik stared at her sceptically until at last he huffed and walked over to his wardrobe. He opened the wardrobe and appeared to be pawing through his own clothes for a long while before he pulled out a bone white gown. He held it up for Christine to see, and she just blinked a few times. She drew nearer to him then, reaching a hand out towards the gown.

It was a bouquet of silks and laces, echoing the sketch Christine had seen. It had a square neckline and short ball gown sleeves. Dupioni silk had been pleated at the base of the skirts and continued through the train. Delicate Chantilly lace covered the bodice, and little silk flowers adorned the sleeves. Christine covered her mouth with her hand, suddenly unable to breathe. Erik thought she was horrified again; she could tell. She shook her head and struggled to choke out,

"It's so beautiful."

"Christine." Erik looked away, apparently trying to hide the 'bad' side of his face. He shut his eyes and insisted, "It was a stupid dream. It was insanity, as you said. Daroga told me I'd gone mad. But you were… you'd grown up, and I'd been with you as you… wild ideas flashed through my mind when I was here alone, and so I designed this wedding gown for you because I… well, I never really expected for you to wear it. It was a stupid -"

"Did you expect to wake beside me in the morning and kiss me without your mask?" Christine demanded. Erik shook his head.

"N-No. Of course not."

Christine crossed her arms over her chest and tipped her head. She'd picked up the habit from Erik, apparently. She sighed and asked, "Did you expect that I'd fall in love with you once you revealed your humanity to me?"

He shook his head again. "No."

"Well," Christine said thickly, holding up her hands, "Here I am. In love with you."

"I'm going to burn the dress, Christine." Erik started to walk past her, but Christine snatched at his arm until he whirled around. She gazed at him, stony-eyed, and said sharply,

"That gown is mine, isn't it?"

Erik was silent. Christine scratched at her curls and licked her dry lips.

"Put it back in the wardrobe. I'll wear the turquoise and violet velvet today."

* * *

"So, who is this Daroga?" Christine asked as they sat eating bread, meat, and cheese for breakfast. She'd dressed; she'd even put on a jaunty little hat that she'd found in her wardrobe.

"You know him. You can find him after the premiere of _Il Muto._ He is the Persian who always sits in the front row, who lingers backstage where the others aren't allowed. His name is Nadir Khan. He saved my life, and we are friends of sorts."

Christine stared at Erik, who had put his mask and wig back on when he'd dressed. Christine had almost forgotten that the premiere of _Il Muto_ was tonight. What was she meant to do about her stitches and her inflamed lip? She reached up to touch at the stitches, but Erik promised her,

"Use a bit more makeup there; no one in the audience will notice it."

"And will you be watching me sing, Erik?" Christine asked. He smirked.

"Of course I will. And when you finish the show, my old Persian friend will find you."

Somehow, Christine managed to finish her breakfast without asking any more questions. She let Erik punt her across the underground lake, and he walked all the way up with her to her dressing room. Christine opened the mirror and turned to face Erik, who was standing there in a fedora and a cape, brandishing a lantern with one hand. He suddenly reached into his cloak, and he pulled out a single red rose with a black ribbon tied around it. Where had _that_ come from? Christine giggled a little as she accepted the rose. Then she turned over her shoulder and whispered,

"Come in here for a moment."

When she looked back, Erik shook his head. "No, Christine. You have to ready yourself for a truly grand performance. And I'm quite certain Meg Giry wants assurance that you're all right."

"Yes, that's probably true," Christine huffed. Just the same, she walked to where Erik stood on a step, putting them at about equal height. She curled her fingers around his mask and his bare cheek and kissed him as hard as she could, square on the mouth. "I love you."

He moaned softly, shifting the lantern from one hand to the other. He kissed her back for a long moment, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. Christine felt delicious heat spread through her veins, and she murmured again onto his lips,

"I love you, Erik."

"You are _everything_ to me, beauty," Erik said. His eyes welled a little, and he whispered, "Everything."

He turned to go then, and Christine shut the mirror-door behind him. She could still see his lantern-light, as well as the glint of his white mask, but then she saw him reach for something against the stone wall, and his image disappeared. Magic. No. Illusion.

Christine swallowed hard. He'd tricked her for years. He'd terrified her with a wax figure of herself. He'd stitched up her eyebrow and he'd caressed her breasts after waking her with a gentle touch.

There was knocking on Christine's door then, and Meg Giry's voice called out,

"Christine? Are you in there?"

"Yes!" Christine rushed over to the door and unlocked it. She pulled open the door and saw Meg standing there in her ballet clothes, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. "Meg."

"I have been looking for you for a half hour so that I could return this." Meg held up the lilac and plum evening gown she'd borrowed from Christine. Meg chewed her lip a little and asked, "Do I want to know what happened to your face?"

"Oh." Christine touched at her eyebrow, wincing at how tender it was. She told the truth then. "I was on my way to see my Angel of Music, and I tripped and fell. He stitched me up."

"Is he a doctor?" Meg cocked up an eyebrow. Christine chuckled and said, again, truthfully,

"He's a lot of things."

"Did you hear they found Joseph Buquet's body?" Meg lowered her eyes. "The police found him up against a sewer grate after they were cleaning it."

Christine's jaw dropped. "Do they know how he died?"

Meg looked disgusted. "Apparently the body was in such decay that they could only identify him by his missing teeth and a scar on his scalp. But no one who's committed suicide puts themselves into a sewer. Someone killed him and planted him there."

Christine's blood ran cold. She shrugged and insisted, "No one will miss him except his wife and children. I don't mean to be cruel or to disparage the dead, but we all know he was a monster."

"That's true enough," murmured Meg. She handed over the purple gown, and Christine beckoned for Meg to follow her into her dressing room. She hung the purple gown up on the rack beside her boudoir, next to her Countess costume for _Il Muto_.

"I have to go," Meg said cautiously, and when Christine frowned at her, Meg explained carefully, "Raoul's coming before the performance tonight. He and I are going to… I don't know. Just talk, I suppose. He kissed me; I want to kiss him again."

Christine's face broke into a wide grin. "Oh, Meg. The man is besotted! Smitten!"

Meg sighed. "I am, too. Do you think it's possible to fall in love with someone after dinner and dancing and kissing and just a few other times together?"

"I think love is… very unpredictable," Christine nodded. Meg gave her a serious look.

"You went back to your teacher, even though he made that mannequin of you. Why did you go back?"

"Because," Christine said a bit helplessly, "I am in love. Now. You go find Raoul, and you kiss him. I want to know before the curtain rises tonight, Meg Giry, that you have been thoroughly and properly kissed by that man."

Meg laughed and nodded. She elegantly twirled in a circle and held her arms out. "Raoul de Chagny. The beautiful man that he is."

"Did I just hear my name?" asked a voice, and Christine laughed a bit maniacally at the way Meg's face had gone scarlet and she had clapped a hand over her mouth. She looked humiliated, but as Raoul strode up, he good-naturedly wrapped one arm around Meg's shoulders and bent to kiss her forehead. "I appreciate the compliment, Miss Giry, but I'm afraid you've got things all reversed. You're the beautiful one."

"Oh, I'm going to be sick with all of this," Christine laughed. "You two go hide in the wings. I've got to rehearse my blocking for tonight."

* * *

" _Serafimo! You are mine and I am yours! You are mine and I am yours! You are mine… forevermore!"_ Christine held the long, high final note of _Il Muto_ as the orchestra swelled. She held her arms up in the air in triumph, and the crowd erupted with cheers. Christine took a breath after releasing the note, feeling dizzy. She was joined by the rest of the company for their curtain call then, and as she descended into a deep curtsy, she looked up to the boxes. In one of them was Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He was staring right at Meg. If Erik had ever been concerned about Raoul still harbouring feelings for Christine, he was wrong. It was plain to Christine, as she curtsied again, that Meg was the only thing Raoul could see in this moment.

Box Five appeared empty; Christine could not even see the white flash of Erik's mask. Wherever he was, he was hiding exceptionally well. Madame Giry applauded from the wings, and when Christine flashed her a little look, the elder woman nodded her approval.

" _Brava,_ Miss Daaé!" called a voice from the front row. Christine looked down to see the Persian - Nadir Khan. He enthusiastically applauded and then made his way to the stairs that ascended up stage left. Christine took that as her cue, and she backed up with the rest of the company. She rushed offstage, fending off the horde of approving company members and patrons with mumbled _thank yous_ and little smiles. She had an armful of roses shoved into her arm by one handsome middle-aged man, and she nodded her thanks. It seemed to take forever to get to her dressing room, but when at last she did, the man Erik had called Daroga was standing outside of the door. Christine's heart pounded more quickly than it had at any point of the performance. She opened her dressing room door and was about to step inside when a voice behind her shouted,

"A triumph, Miss Daaé! Stupendous." Christine looked over her shoulder to see Monsieur Firmin flashing her a wide grin. "Every seat sold, everyone in awe of you. My dear… you must sing the lead henceforth."

Christine nodded, her eyes welling. "Thank you, Monsieur Firmin." She turned to the Persian as Monsieur Firmin was swept up in the crowd. She jerked her head toward the dressing room and said, "Monsieur Khan."

He was clad in elegant dress clothes just like all the other gentlemen at the opera, and he adjusted the hold of his top hat as he followed Christine into the dressing room.

Christine gasped as she shut the door. Erik was standing in the middle of the room, seemingly having materialised out of nowhere. Nadir Khan chuckled and pointed a finger at Erik.

"It's not polite to sneak up on young ladies," he said in a thickly-accented voice. "If we were in Mazenderan, I'd arrest you for such behaviour."

"Ah, but we left the Shah behind us," Erik said, tipping his head. He turned to Christine but still spoke to Nadir as he insisted, "I prefer Paris."

"As do I," said Nadir. "The beautiful soprano and I have yet to be introduced formally."

Erik nodded. "Christine, this is my old friend Nadir Khan, once a sort of chief of police to the Shah of Persia himself. Daroga, may I present Miss Christine Daaé? You know everything about her at this point."

"With the way you talk my ear off about her? Yes, I do," Nadir confirmed. He turned to Christine. "No offence intended."

"None taken," said Christine. "You're the one who got me my dresses."

Nadir's face fell a little, and then Erik cut in and said softly,

"I showed her the wedding gown, Daroga."

Nadir looked shocked. "And yet, here she stands."

"My love is stronger than my fear," Christine said stoutly, and Nadir looked more surprised than ever. He flicked his eyes back to Erik and said,

"So you have what you've been wanting."

"Happiness? Yes." Erik pursed his misshapen lips. "Daroga, go through the wall and you'll find yourself back in the wings amongst the throng. I need a moment with Christine. We can all reunite over tea some other time."

"Rose tea, if you please. Now, where am I meant to escape? Not that I doubt you've got tunnels and paths littering every single chamber of this opera house."

Erik pointed a finger at part of the damask wallpaper and said, "Push hard on the frame of that painting."

Nadir gave Erik an amused look and shook his head. "They found Buquet."

"I was going to tell you," Christine said quietly. "Meg told me. He washed up against a sewer grate."

Erik shrugged and said nothing. Nadir raised his dark, thick eyebrows and dragged a gloved thumb over the brim of his top hat.

"If you care about Miss Daaé," he said in a sincere voice, "You'll be far more careful in future."

"Thank you, Daroga." Erik rolled his eyes, exaggerating the asymmetrical nature of them.

"Your performance tonight was spectacular, Miss Daaé," said the Persian. "Far better than anything I ever heard from La Carlotta. I look forward to your next triumph."

"I wouldn't be able to sing at all if it weren't for Erik," Christine insisted, but Erik dragged a hand over his wig and shook his head.

"Modest little thing," he whispered, "you're far more gifted than you know."

"Erik." Christine lowered her eyes. Nadir Khan let out a low rumbling laugh and murmured,

"I think it is time for me to take my leave. A pleasure to meet you at long last, Miss Daaé. Goodnight, Erik."

"Daroga." Erik lifted his face, and Nadir flicked up a brow. Erik reached into his jacket and pulled out a neat stack of bills. He passed them over to his friend and said meaningfully, "It's twice the food these days."

Nadir's smirk almost elicited a little smile from Christine, but she managed to suppress it. But he just tucked the money into his own jacket and walked over to the wall, pushing hard upon the framed painting of a cat bathing in sunlight. Suddenly, a doorway appeared, swinging open where the wall met the corner of the room. The hinges were hidden by the wallpaper. Of course they were; Erik had built his secret passages before the opera house's completion. Nadir Khan vanished into the wall, and then the door shut behind him. Christine turned to Erik and prompted him,

"Was it really half as good as everyone's insisting it was?"

"You were perfection," Erik said. He tipped his head just a little and gave her a half smile. "That one D was still giving you trouble, but -"

"Oh, Erik." Christine grinned. "You told Monsieur Khan that you needed a moment alone with me."

"I want more than a moment alone with you, Christine," Erik told her. His eyes flicked up and down, and he told her, "Why don't you change clothes and wash the stage makeup off, and come downstairs with me? I'd like to -"

"Christine?" Meg Giry's breathless voice sounded outside, and she rapped quickly on the door. Christine's eyes went wide, and she hissed to Erik, "Hide!"

He was behind the mirror so quickly that Christine hardly had time to register his movement. She gulped and went over to the door, still holding an armful of roses. Erik would be staying right behind the mirror, she knew. She opened her door and saw Meg standing in tears. Christine's little smile faded.

"Meg? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong!" Meg insisted. "It's… it's Raoul. He gave me _this_ after the performance!" She gestured to her neck, to where a strand of gorgeous South Sea pearls sat perfectly around Meg's neck. "He told me that he wants more dancing, more dinners. Can you believe it? I swear, Christine; I'm falling in love with him."

"Oh, Meg." Christine threw her arms around her friend. "I'm getting white stage makeup all over your hair."

"I don't care," Meg giggled. Christine pulled back and touched the tip of Meg's nose. "You go dream all about that Vicomte of yours… and of the life you'll have with him."

Meg squealed as she turned on a food and dashed away. Christine slowly shut the door and turned the lock. She set down her mountain of roses on the desk and then took off her own gaudy costume jewellery.

"One moment, Angel," she murmured, knowing he could hear her just fine. "Let me change, and then you and I will go home and rest."

**Author's Note: Raise your hand if you ship Meg and Raoul! Raise your other hand if you want something just a bit more** _**spicy** _ **to happen between Erik and Christine. Everyone have both hands up? Okay! Onward! Thanks as always for reviewing.**


	11. Desire

"I feel like a woman reborn," Christine declared as she came walking out of the bathroom in her nightgown. Erik's eyes flicked up and down her form. She'd combed her curls into a thick braid after washing the sweat out, and she'd donned the elegant nightgown from her first night here. "It feels so nice to have that costume off."

"But you sang so perfectly, Christine," hummed Erik. He stepped up closer to her and whispered, "Get some rest, beauty. You've earned it."

"Erik?" Christine asked as he started to walk away. He turned around and raised his brow. She smirked a little and said, "Do _you_ need a bath?"

He laughed, a low rumble, and said, "I took one earlier today, when you were getting ready for your performance."

"Oh." Christine felt a little disappointed. He'd seen her naked. She wanted to see him naked, too. As if he'd read her mind, Erik mumbled,

"Seems a little silly for you to sleep in the yellow room and for me to sleep in my own room without you."

"Yes, that certainly does seem silly," Christine confirmed, "owing to the way I think we both derive comfort from sleeping in one another's company."

Erik cleared his throat and reached for Christine's fingers. She curled them against his palm and whispered,

"Will you sing me to sleep?"

"Come with me," he said by way of response. He led her through the corridor and to his bedroom, and she gratefully followed him inside. She crawled up onto the bed and put herself under the heavy blankets. Erik strode over to his wash basin and took his mask and wig off, setting them aside. Christine remembered vividly how he'd reacted when she'd first removed his mask. He'd been angry and frightened that she would run away. Now he seemed completely at ease, staring at Christine's reflection in his mirror as he carried out his ablutions. Christine watched him wash his face, the good side and the scarred side, and when he folded and set down his washcloth, he whispered, seemingly to himself,

"My own angel is here with me."

Christine smiled a bit to herself at that. She had the urge, suddenly to see him without his clothes. If she just waited silently, she thought, he'd disrobe. She could feel it.

Sure enough, Erik pulled his braces off over his shoulders and then yanked his shirt out from his trousers. He took off his tie and began unbuttoning the shirt, and when he stripped it off, facing away from Christine, she gasped.

His back was striped with raised scars in a seemingly random pattern. Had he been… was it truly as he said, that he'd been whipped and abused? The marks left from that mistreatment were painted all over him. Erik glanced over his shoulder and mumbled to Christine,

"It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago. Don't trouble yourself with my past, beauty."

"Erik. It makes me sick to think of people hurting you." Christine's eyes burned. But Erik turned over his shoulder again and insisted,

"Whippings were the least of my concern, believe me. I won't recount it all to you; it isn't anything you need to hear."

"Because I am weak?" Christine demanded sharply, and Erik huffed a breath, shaking his head.

"Because I do not want your pity. I want your love."

"Well," she choked out, "You have got that."

She was surprised when he appeared to be unbuttoning his trousers, still facing away from her. Would he truly disrobe entirely? He was untying something - his underwear. He started to peel off his lower layers of clothing, and before Christine knew what was happening, he was naked, facing away from her. She leaned to the side and ogled, trying to get a better look of him.

"Enjoying the view, my dear?" he japed, but Christine was serious as she replied,

"Yes."

His body was lean but sinewy, like he'd honed his muscles through vigorous exercise and a strict diet. Christine blinked at him as he folded all his clothes and set them on a side chair, then walked over to his wardrobe and extracted a nightshirt. He glanced over his shoulder and held up the nightshirt.

"Do you even want me to put this on?" One eyebrow flicked up. Christine giggled and shook her head.

"No."

"I thought not." Erik smirked and turned, stalking toward the bed like a tiger in pursuit of prey. Christine's eyes locked onto his manhood, and she whispered rather breathlessly,

"So _that's_ what they look like."

"Oh, come now, Christine," purred Erik, "at least give me a chance to get a bit excited before you go passing judgments."

She laughed again as Erik set his nightshirt down on the table beside the bed and climbed up. He joined Christine beneath the blankets and urged her to snuggle near him. She kissed his cheek on impulse, the ruined side, and his throat bobbed. She moved her lips to his mouth and drew him into a deep kiss. He seemed surprised by her gall, by the way she pushed her own tongue straight into his mouth and dragged it over the roof of his tongue. He pulled back from her, his pale blind eye as glazed as his dark one, and he whispered,

"You've grown bold."

"Do you object, Maestro?" Christine held his face in her hand, and he shook his head no. He moved his mouth to her neck, and she groaned a bit at the idea of being marked up by him again. He wrapped his arm around her and pet her back as his mouth suckled at the place where her neck met her collarbone. Christine's eyes fluttered shut, and she felt heat between her legs.

"Please don't stop," she begged him, and he murmured against her skin,

"If I bruise you up, it'll show for the performance tomorrow. I'll be careful."

"Not too careful," Christine beseeched him. Her hands went to his mostly-bald head and held fast there. But his kisses were light and delicate, and she found herself wanting so much more. Her hand reached out on instinct beneath the blankets, and her fingers curled around the shaft of Erik's now-erect member. He ripped his mouth from her neck and choked out,

"Oh, God, Christine."

She wondered what had elicited that sort of reaction; she'd barely touched him. But she had an urgent desire - a _need_ \- for him to be inside of her. She knew, intellectually, how relations worked. The man put his hardened cock into a woman's body and stroked it back and forth. She knew that much. She also knew that that was how a woman had a child put upon her. And, yet, she wanted it so very badly right now.

"Erik," she mumbled, "I need you."

"Your husband will be the one to take you," Erik protested. "It is not right that I would do those things to you, to put a child on you -"

"It is the man's seed which produces a child, isn't it?" Christine asked, and Erik squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He nodded, and Christine suggested, "What if you… you know, did things with me… but spilled your seed elsewhere?"

"I don't think I have the self-control for that, Christine." Erik looked almost sad. "You're far too beautiful, and I want you far too badly."

"Please," she whispered. "Just for a little while." She peeled off her nightgown before he could protest.

"Oh." His eyes squinted tightly shut again, and he licked his bloated lips. Finally he made a move to get atop her, kneeling in between her bent legs. He stared down at Christine, and she studied his marled, warped face. She nodded.

"Please."

He finally gripped his own cock in his hand and brought it down to Christine's womanhood. He used the thumb of his other hand to rub circles on Christine's nub, the same way she'd done to herself in the bathtub. She arched her back up and grasped at the sheets, humming,

"Yes."

"You're already wet for me, beauty," Erik noted. "You want this."

"I want _you_ ," Christine specified, looking him straight in his dark, seeing eye. Erik seemed helpless then as he held onto his cock and drove the tip against Christine's nub. She cried out, twisting a little where she lay. That had felt good. That had felt _very_ good. Erik rubbed the tip against her again, this time sliding forward and back. Christine swiveled her hip, trying to get closer to him, and he whispered again,

"My God, Christine."

"Please do not stop." Christine begged. Over and over he pushed his tip against her nub and then used it to explore the lips and entrance of her womanhood. Everywhere his cock dragged, it left a tingle of want and satisfaction mingling in its wake. Christine found herself driving her head back against the pillow, thrashing a little until Erik calmed her by holding down her hip. He started to thrust, to rock his manhood against Christine's clit. She was so soaked that he was lubricated just fine, and it felt positively amazing. He touched his cock at her entrance and made circles there with it, causing Christine to gasp and moan. Then he returned to thrusting his full length against her clit. He seemed just as worked up as Christine was; his head was thrown back and his partially-scarred chest was heaving with quick panting.

Christine felt the coil of satisfaction deep in her abdomen, felt everything going tight and hot. Her ears began to ring, and when she shut her eyes, she saw spots. Erik seemed to sense that she was nearing the precipice. He sped up and deepened his thrusting until Christine's clit was so stimulated she could hardly breathe. She crashed through a plane of invisible glass then, everything exploding into the most sensational bliss. She covered her eyes with a forearm and murmured helplessly,

"Oh, it feels so good."

Erik groaned, and Christine knew why. She was finishing for him, and he could feel her contractions. Suddenly his cock went still, and Christine removed her forearm from her face to look down at it. The tip was swollen and purple, and he was visibly throbbing where his own hand grasped the shaft. Suddenly his seed was bursting forth in warm, creamy jets, landing all over Christine's stomach and going all the way up to her breasts. She cried out at the sight of it, at the warm feel of it on her body. Erik grunted a few more times as his seed burst forth, and then he quickly removed his cock from Christine's body.

She watched as he rushed over to his wash basin and dipped his washcloth in water. He wrung it out and came back to the bed, washing Christine's flat stomach and breasts. She smiled at him, but he seemed very serious. He scrubbed hard until every trace of his fluids were gone from her body.

She wanted to sleep naked with him, she thought as he returned to the wash basin. But sleeping together naked after _this_ had happened would only lead to more activity in the morning. She wanted every part of him. She wanted to do like the ballet rats had claimed, to take him in her mouth and give him pleasure. She wanted to do what Hyacinthe had said and to feel his fingers bring her to the phantom edge. She wanted him to enter her body. She wanted him to spill himself inside of her.

He'd reminded her over and over that that act was only for a husband and a wife. Christine looked around and realised she didn't ever want to stop calling his lair her home. She realised that she was in love with him more deeply than she'd realised. And she thought about the wedding gown hanging in the wardrobe, about the ring he'd tried to shove onto her finger.

He wanted to marry her. He'd made that quite plain. Did she want to marry him?

Yes.

It took her a long moment to reach that conclusion, but she shut her eyes and thought of so many things. She thought of him stitching up her eyebrow, of him running a bath, of him baking them pastries. She thought of him gifting her clothes and designing a room for her. She thought of him teaching her how to sing, honing her voice and shaping the notes she sang. She thought of him with a violin, a piano, an organ.

She thought of him dancing with her in the bathroom with her in nothing but a towel.

"Erik?" she called. He turned around and looked very solemn, as if he regretted what he'd done with her. She chewed her lip for a moment and then declared, "I enjoyed that."

"As did I, my dear," he said. She thought of how his face had twisted, as if in pain, during his moment of ecstasy. She thought of riding him with clothes on, of him waking her with kisses. Oh, God help her, she thought, but she did want to be his wife.

"Erik?" she said again, and as he pulled his nightgown over his head, she held up a hand to keep him from climbing into the bed. "Where is it?"

"Where is what, Christine?" Erik looked just a little afraid. She sat up, unembarrassed now of her bare chest. She whispered,

"Where is the ring you got for me?"

"The engagement ring," Erik said, throwing up his eyebrows. "It's, erm… I have a little drawer for it in the music room. A secret place for it. And I… I put it in my pocket sometimes, especially when I am watching you sing. I like to examine it whilst I hear your voice."

For some strange reason, that did not frighten Christine at all. She huffed a breath and said,

"I think it's time for you to give it to me, Erik."

"You want…" His eyes rimmed red at once, and a tear boiled over onto his destroyed half of his face as he choked out, "You want to marry me?"

"Yes. Please." Christine flashed him a half smile and said, "It feels like the next step."

"You're only saying that because of blind lust, Christine." Erik shook his head. "No. I won't go get it right now and have you panic when you wake with it on your finger. If you really want it, I'll fetch it in the morning and ask you properly."

"I'm not going to change my mind," Christine said firmly. "Did you know that Meg Giry got a strand of South Sea pearls from Raoul?"

Erik climbed into the bed and lay facing Christine. He pushed a rogue curl out of her face and nodded.

"Yes. I was behind the mirror when you were speaking with her. And I watched him during _Il Muto._ He seems to adore her."

"Meg and Raoul will get married," whispered Christine, "and she'll be the Vicomtesse. She'll have to stop performing, of course, because it's impossible for the wife of an aristocrat, even in a morganatic marriage, to perform. But Meg won't mind. And Madame Giry -"

"Antoinette wishes nothing more for her daughter than happiness and security," Erik said stoutly. "I discussed the matter with her earlier today. She hopes the Vicomte won't drag his feet."

Christine smiled a little and said, "If I married you, Erik, I could still be the _prima donna_ of this opera."

"Not with a child on you." He shook his head. "I'd have to… there are these devices. They're expensive, so you would have to limit activity with them, but there are these things made out of animal skin. They're called condoms. I'm sure Daroga could find some for me. Even so, we would have to be so very careful. A pregnancy, Christine, would bring down your career just as quickly as it's ascended."

"Eloise says that if you're with a man near your bleeding, you can't have a child put on you," Christine announced, still lying on her pillow and facing Erik. His features hardened as he whispered,

"Eloise speaks from experience, I suppose."

"Probably." Christine giggled a little.

"Let's sleep," Erik suggested. "It is late, and you have another performance tomorrow."

* * *

When Christine woke in the morning, Erik was already gone. She wondered what time it was, blinking bleary-eyed around the bedroom. She finally settled her gaze upon the clock, which read half past seven. So it was early yet. Christine heaved herself out of the bed and made her way across to her own bedroom. She opened her wardrobe and began dressing, one piece at a time. She was yanking on the ties of her corset when she heard a voice from the bedroom door.

"Good morning, my dear."

"Erik." Christine contorted her arms until she'd tied the laces, and then she reached for her petticoat and corset cover. She slid her brown wool dress skirt over her head, and then the bodice, and she decided to leave her hair in its thick braid. She didn't have rehearsal today, and her call time for her performance wasn't until half past six. That meant she could spend the entire day with Erik. She turned towards him once she was dressed, and she said,

"I'm sure you heard the announcement Monsieur Firmin made to the entire company before last night's premiere."

Erik nodded. "He said that if things went well, they'd be hosting a masquerade ball to celebrate the opera's new _prima donna._ A party on your behalf."

"A masked party," Christine reminded him. "You could come."

He scoffed. "I'm not going to any party hosted by the opera managers."

Christine felt a spike of hurt go through her like a knife wound. "Not even one to celebrate _me?_ "

"Do you know how many people would flood you with questions about your teacher if I danced with you at that party?"

"What if I were fending off questions about… about something more serious than that?" Christine chewed her lip. Erik blinked. Suddenly Christine realised that he hadn't put his mask or wig back on this morning. He was comfortable enough around her to go entirely unmasked. She walked towards him, and when she reached him, she tipped her forehead against his chest.

"You still want the ring." His voice was tight.

"I want what it represents," Christine confirmed. "I want to wear the gown you designed for me. We'll do an old-fashioned handfasting and vows. It doesn't have to be registered with the Church or the government. I just want to be your wife."

Erik shut his eyes and shook his head. "No, this can't be real."

"Erik." She reached up to cup his cheeks in her hands. "Please believe me when I say that I love you."

He puffed a breath and reached into his jacket. He seemed to be rifling around his breast pocket for a moment, and then he extracted something and descended to one knee. Christine's heart fluttered and her breath escaped her. He'd frightened her the first time he'd done this, but she wasn't frightened anymore.

"Christine Daaé," Erik whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks now. His voice hitched as he managed to say, "You are everything to me. You are… please, Christine, marry me."

She just nodded, unable to speak. She held out her left hand and let him push the ring onto it. Christine held up her hand and gasped. She had never had the opportunity to properly examine the ring; she'd panicked the last time he'd pushed it onto her finger. It was yellow gold with intricate, detailed filigree and tiny inlaid diamonds. In the centre of the ring was a substantially larger, perfectly clear diamond. Christine panted a little, feeling dizzy and weak.

"Christine?" Erik hauled himself to his feet and steadied her. "You need to sit. Come with me to the parlour and I'll get you some water."

She felt numb as he guided her out of her bedroom and into the blue parlour. She sat when he pushed her down into a chair, and as he walked into the kitchen to fetch water, she stared at the gorgeous ring he'd put onto her finger. She should feel fear, she thought. She should feel like living here would trap her, like he was a monster who had killed people and would probably do it again. Instead, she just felt like the road before her was paved in happiness.

Erik came back into the room and handed Christine a glass of water, which she gratefully accepted. He sat in the armchair opposite her and drummed his fingers on the arms. He stared at her left hand as she drank water, and he murmured,

"You've no idea how pleased it makes me to see you wearing that ring."

"I know how pleased it makes _me_ ," Christine said, raising her eyebrows. He was silent for a long moment, and then he whispered,

"I'll come to the managers' masquerade ball. Only because it's intended to celebrate you. I will dance with you, and I'll try to be in good humour despite the date of the ball."

"Next Tuesday?" Christine frowned. "What's so significant about next Tuesday?"

Erik gave a sad little smile. "It is one of the only things my horrid witch of a mother never let me forget - the day I came into the world and ruined everything."

"Your birthday," Christine breathed. He nodded.

"My forty-first birthday. I am an old man, and you want to marry me. Little fool."

"Erik." Christine scowled. "I shall have to get you a birthday gift."

"No, please." Erik seemed serious. "I do not mark the date; it is a mournful date."

"Well, it won't be mournful this year." Christine sniffed and tipped up her head. "You'll be dancing with me at the masquerade ball."

"What are you going to do about that ring?" Erik asked, and Christine was confused for a moment until he clarified, "You'll get all sorts of questions about who you're marrying. Imagine Meg Giry's reaction."

"Well, all I can hope is that Meg Giry has a ring from a Vicomte soon enough." Christine sighed. "As for my ring, I shall remove it for performances but otherwise leave it on. And if anyone asks me who I'm marrying, I shall be honest. I am marrying my teacher."

He scoffed. "Best of luck to you."

She smirked a little. "I'll find a way to appease those who pry. I won't live in secret."

"My dear," Erik said, gesturing rather grandly around him, "You are already living in secret."

Christine sighed and pulled off the wonderful diamond ring. She passed it back over to Erik and asked him,

"Will you keep it safe for me until… until I can wear it publicly."

His fingers closed around it, and he nodded. "I've kept it safe this long," he said. "I'll continue to treasure it, knowing now that it symbolises your desire to be wed."

"Desire." Christine huffed a breath. "I feel all sorts of desire towards you, Erik."

His lips curled up a little, and his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

"You," he said, "have another two performances before the masquerade ball. But there isn't much time. I shall have to send Daroga for costumes. Tonight, I'll get him the money and instructions. Your favourite dress is scarlet and black; shall we wear those colours for the masquerade?"

"Yes," Christine grinned. She shut her eyes and imagined dancing with her fiancé, her teacher, her everything. "Yes."

**Author's Note: Okay, so things got really heated between them, Christine's pushing for a quick wedding, and there's a masquerade ball coming up.** _ **Nothing could possibly go wrong with any of these variables.**_ **;) As always, thank you for reading and please do leave a review.**


	12. The Good and the Bad

A few days later, Christine blinked her eyes open to the sound of a thudding organ. She yawned, sitting up, and was unsurprised to find that Erik was not there. Christine climbed out of Erik's bed and snuck across the corridor into the butter yellow room. She scrubbed her face and teeth and put on her undergarments. As she was lacing up her corset, Christine frowned to herself as a thought drilled into her mind.

_Today is the day. Now is the moment._

She chewed her lip as Erik's organ music continued. She sighed and strode in her undergarments and white satin shoes back across the corridor. She opened Erik's wardrobe and stared at the white silk-and-lace gown he'd designed for her. Very much on impulse, and hardly sparing it a thought, she snatched the gown's hanger and began to pull the bodice apart from the skirts. She undid the buttons running up the front and set it aside. She pulled the heavy gown, complete with its train, over her head. She adjusted the bustle and then pulled on the short-sleeved bodice. Her fingers shook like mad as she struggled to do up the buttons. Finally, _finally,_ she was safely ensconced within the gown, and she reached into the wardrobe for the veil. It had silk flowers around an ivory hair comb. Christine neatened her curls the best she could and then tucked the hair comb into the thick nest of hair at the crown of her head. She peeled the first layer forward and let it fall in front of her face.

 _Today is the day,_ she thought firmly. _Now is the moment._

She should be terrified. But instead her stomach quivered with anticipation. Erik was still playing the organ, a Bach fugue that Christine recognised. She began to march out of his bedroom, pulling the heavy train of her wedding gown behind her. She wasn't doing this properly, she thought. She had no flowers. Where was Meg? No one was walking her down an aisle in a church. But as she approached the music room, she considered that this was the only way for them to truly be together.

"Erik?" She said his name loudly, almost in a shout, because his organ playing was so forceful. He stopped playing and looked up, without mask or wig, and then his jaw dropped. Christine stared at him through the thin tulle of her veil and shrugged. "It fits."

"Christine." Erik bowed his head and descended at once into shaking sobs. Christine, feeling abruptly concerned, rushed over to him and put her hand between his shoulder blades. She rubbed at his jacket and whispered,

"I thought you would be happy."

"Christine." Erik raised his eyes to her, the dark, sharp eye and the pale, blind one. She took his face in her hands and murmured,

"Let's do it now."

"You can't be serious," Erik said, shaking his head. Christine nodded.

"Right now."

"It won't… it doesn't mean anything if we do it down here." Erik was crying so hard it seemed like he couldn't breathe properly.

"It means everything to me," Christine argued, but she knew what he meant. It wouldn't be _real_ if they didn't have a magistrate conduct the ceremony. She huffed. Surely Erik didn't have a birth certificate. And Christine would have to get evidence that her parents had died, and she would need permission from someone else instead… did Erik's parents live on? They couldn't have the banns read. There was nothing about the formal wedding process that they could do properly. Christine growled a little and insisted,

"We have to do it here. Alone. There is no other way. And I will wear your ring on my finger, and if anyone asks me, I will tell them -"

"Rings," Erik corrected her, and Christine shrugged in confusion. Erik licked his bloated lips and opened a tiny drawer beside his organ. He reached into it and pulled out Christine's beautiful engagement ring, along with two simple gold bands. Christine chomped hard on her lip and whispered,

"Rings. I will wear your rings, Erik, and if anyone asks, I will tell them that my Angel of Music is my husband now."

"You really want…" Erik choked out the words and then stopped, crying again. He looked away. "You want _me?_ "

"Of course I do," Christine said almost defensively. Erik sniffed and said,

"Forgive my disbelief; I have been an unwanted creature from the day of my birth."

"Well." Christine stood up straighter. "I want you so badly that I feel it in my bones."

Erik heaved himself off the piano bench and took Christine's left hand in his right one. He pushed her engagement ring onto her fourth finger and whispered in a tremulous voice,

"Christine Daaé, I take you for my wife. I will honour you, cherish you, love you… most… ardently. Until the day I die."

He pushed her wedding band onto her hand, and Christine sniffled as tears came to her own eyes. She tried to stay steady, but seeing Erik display such raw emotion made a tear creep from her eye down her cheek. She took Erik's larger wedding band in her shaking hands and said,

"Erik…" She realised at once that, if he had a surname, she didn't know it. She studied his face through the veil, and, as if he knew what the problem was, he said stoutly,

"It's just Erik."

A mononym. So Christine would keep her father's name. She sucked on her lip for a moment and then said,

"Erik, I take you for my husband. Full of gratitude for all you have taught me, I will be near you always, and will love you with all of my heart."

She pushed his ring onto his left hand, and his breath hitched. He'd been wanting this for ages, she knew. He'd been wanting to marry her since long before it had been an appropriate thing to consider. But Christine couldn't care, not anymore. She whispered to him,

"Now you must kiss me and seal our union."

"Yes, all right." Erik peeled back Christine's veil, and then he took her face in his hands and brought his lips to hers for a gentle peck. But Christine, hungry for more, urged him to kiss her more enthusiastically. He did, swiping a tongue over her lip and then into her mouth. He pressed his mutilated lips to hers and held them there for a long while. Christine drank him in, breathing in the scent of leather and books and ink. She grasped at his white shirt beneath his jacket, and when at last he pulled away, she asked seriously,

"Is this what you wanted? For me to be your bride?"

"Yes." He lowered his head as if in shame. "Yes, beauty, I have longed for you."

"We will never be apart," Christine promised him. He raised his eyes and stared at her for a long moment, and then he whispered,

"This isn't real. It can't be happening. It's a dream, and I've not yet awakened. When I do, you'll be going to dinner with that fop of a vicomte, and I -"

"No." Christine kissed the place on his cheekbone that was sunken and black. "I am yours, Erik. _My Christine._ That's what you called me. Or don't you want your Christine anymore?"

He kissed her again, this time not releasing her until her lips felt bruised.

* * *

"Will Monsieur Khan be at the masquerade ball?" asked Christine, snuggling closer to Erik. He nodded.

"Mmm. I like waking with you beside me. Yes, Daroga was invited. He's coming alone. He told me yesterday that he was envious of me. _Living in your own world, with that queen of a prima donna for your bride._ I have never had anyone be jealous of me before."

"Nor I," said Christine, "but Meg was certainly jealous when she saw my rings. She was confused, too. _Your Angel of Music, your teacher, has married you?_ She could scarcely believe it. She wants a proposal from Raoul."

"I was hidden backstage after the performance last night," Erik said casually. "Raoul de Chagny stood with Madame Giry, talking very seriously about something. I couldn't hear them. But Antoinette smiled and nodded."  
Christine gasped. "You think he was asking her permission to be her _pretendu?_ "

"I do think so," Erik nodded. Christine raised her eyes to look up at him and laughed a little.

"Oh. Oh, I want Meg to be happy the same way I'm happy. I want her to be loved like I'm loved."

"Well, she won't have that," Erik warned. "No one will ever be loved the way you are loved, Christine."

She buried her face against Erik's chest and dared to ask, "Did Monsieur Khan get you one of those devices?"

"A condom," Erik sighed. "Yes, I've got a few."

"And so shall we…" Christine trailed off. He smirked a little and shook his head.

"Let us wait just a little while longer. They are hardly foolproof. It is animal skin stitched together. Do you know Casanova checked his for holes by blowing the thing up with air?"

Christine giggled madly and then felt her little smile fade from her face. "But our marriage isn't consummated. Meg asked me what it felt like to consummate a marriage, and when I admitted that I didn't know, Sabine and Eloise laughed at me."

Erik stared down at Christine, giving her a serious look. "I can't today," he said solemnly. "I can't do it today."

Christine frowned deeply. "What is stopping you?"

"Your career," he answered at once. "Christine, there are so many other ways we might bring one another pleasure. Please, give it a year of you singing as _prima donna_ -"

"A year?" Christine demanded shrilly. "I'm to wait a year before having you inside of me?"

Erik shut his eyes and shook his head, saying, "I wouldn't be able to do it today; my anxiety would override any… you know that I desire you more than anything in the world. But I also desire your career as _prima donna._ Please. Grant me a year. I promise I will bring you all manner of pleasure, Christine. I will make you feel things…"

He was petting her arm, and she shivered a little. Christine moved to straddle him, and she whispered,

"Please."

"We are at an impasse," Erik said stoutly, staring right into Christine's eyes. "If you think I don't want to put you on your hands and knees and drive myself right into you from behind, then you're -"

"Mmph." Christine moaned, grinding her hips against Erik's cock. He immediately started to harden beneath her, and he tossed his head back and mumbled helplessly,

"Stop. I need you to sing; I can't let you -"

"You don't want me to bear your child?" she prompted, and Erik growled.

"Christine!"

"Yes?" She was properly riding his erection now, with only their nightclothes keeping them apart. His hands went to her waist, and for a moment she thought he was going to roughly toss her to the side. Instead his breath shook in his nostrils, and his back arched a little, and he murmured softly,

"I need you."

"Yes." Christine reached between them and pulled up his nightshirt. She yanked up her own nightgown and then climbed atop him again, this time lining up his tip with her entrance. Erik wrenched his eyes shut and whispered,

"Condom."

"I don't know where they are," Christine said breathlessly, "or how to put one on."

"I'll pull out." Erik was panting jaggedly now, and Christine descended onto the length of his cock. There was some ripping and tearing inside of her, the sensation of her virginity gone, and when Christine looked down, a little trickle of blood transferred from her body onto Erik's skin. She gulped and rose back up, but it hurt badly.

"Oh, I didn't know it would feel like…" Christine shook her head and contorted her face. Erik kept her swaying with his hands on her waist, and he promised her,

"It will be better in a moment."

"How do you know? Mmm, no, Erik, I feel too full and it -"

"Enough, then." Erik lifted Christine off of his bloodied cock and gently lay her beside him. He pulled his nightshirt down as he pulled the blankets up around them. His good side of his face was flushed red as he declared, "It's always a little difficult the first time. For women. Of course, God did not see fit to grant the same agony to men. He loathes women, I think."

Christine choked out a laugh and shook her head. "I thought it would feel like the other times you and I have been together."

"There is a bit of tissue inside a woman's body, when she is intact," Erik said primly, "and in a small proportion of women, the pain of breaking it for the first time is profound. I did not mean to hurt you. It may also be, in part, my own anatomy."

Christine raised her eyebrows. "Your face?"

"What? No. It's… I've seen plenty of men's bodies. From my days with the gypsies to my days with the Shah in Persia. I've seen loads of men naked, bathing or changing clothes. It's difficult not to notice the difference."

"What difference?" Christine demanded. "Is there something wrong with yours?"

He shut his eyes and licked his lips. "Mine is… quite large. Much, much larger than most men's organs. And so I presume that your body did not take kindly to it upon the first attempt. Believe me, the next time will feel better. You could also… _we_ could also ready you a bit with fingers, you understand. Before the next time. Today, you must rest. It'll be sore for a little while."

Christine felt very embarrassed all of a sudden. She'd bled on him. She had felt ripping and stinging. His cock had not felt good this morning. She was confused at the fact that relations with him had caused pain instead of pleasure. But he had protected her; he'd hauled her off of his body and he'd relinquished his own pleasure. Christine stared into his eyes and whispered,

"Erik, I love you."

He answered her with a gentle kiss.

 **Author's Note: A shorter chapter today because** _ **marriage**_ **and also because I want the masquerade ball to have its own chapter. Everybody ready for some dancing… in public? Here we go!**


	13. Masquerade

"Well?" Christine stepped into Erik's room and smirked. "What do you think?"

"You look magnificent, Christine." Erik was buttoning up his red jacket, which had been tailored perfectly and made him look broad but lean. Christine sighed and looked down at her own form. Her bodice was of red raw silk, and there was black military braiding all down the front. The skirt, under which she'd put a voluminous petticoat, only reached her calves. It was also scarlet raw silk, with black braiding around the hem. She had on perfectly-fitting black leather gloves. She wore boots of smooth black leather with shining white spats. Her militaristic ensemble was complemented with the styling of her hair and mask. Her curls had been drawn back into a tight, thick braid running down her back, tied neatly with black cording. Her mask, which tied behind her head and covered the top half of her face, was of papier mâché that had been painted red, with black cording around the outside. It was, all in all, an exceedingly aggressive look. But Erik looked far more menacing than Christine.

"You're like Marie in _La fille du régiment_ ," declared Erik. "You would make Donizetti proud."

She smiled a little as he did up the hook and eye at his collar. He reached for his leather gloves off the end of the bed and slid them on. He held out his hands and echoed Christine's earlier question.

"Well?"

"Well, you look like you're about to fire a cannon at somebody." Christine giggled softly, and Erik appeared to be stifling a grin. His jacket was just like Christine's, except his military braiding was also present on his wide shoulders and near the cuffs of the sleeves. He wore black breeches and knee-high black leather boots. He had on his wig, but today he wore a different mask than he normally did. It was papier mâché and covered the 'bad' side of his face. Like Christine's, it was scarlet with black accents.

"We are quite the pair," Christine said. She neared him and whispered, "All you need is a sabre."

He tipped his head. "I've done enough damage in my life with blades. Tonight, I dance to honour the Populaire's new _prima donna._ "

Christine let out a quivering breath. This masquerade was really meant to celebrate her above anyone else, and she admitted to herself that she had grown anxious over the past twenty-four hours. Monsieur Khan had taken Erik's and Christine's measurements to a tailor and dressmaker, but Erik had insisted on making the masks himself. He was quite used to fashioning facial coverings, he had assured Christine. He'd done quite the job, and it had been intriguing and intimate to have him carefully shape the mask to Christine's face. He'd painted them himself, and he'd attached the cording.

"They all know now," Christine said in a shaking voice. "They all know that I'm married. They just don't know to whom. I told Meg… I told her that your name was Erik. But when she asked where we lived… I don't know. I panicked. I said we had a small place on the rue de Rivoli."

Erik snorted a laugh, and Christine scowled. "What's so funny?"

His head tipped again. "Daroga lives on the rue de Rivoli. I suppose we are imaginary neighbours."

"Oh." Christine gulped. "If you're ready, I'd like to be on time."

"Of course," murmured Erik. He reached Christine and put his hands on her shoulders. "Beautiful creature."

"Happy birthday, Erik," Christine said. Then, blinking quickly, she shrugged and said, "I didn't get you a gift, because you said you didn't want one. But now I feel badly about it, like I should have gotten you one anyway, and I -"

"You, here, with me, is the greatest gift I could ever receive," Erik informed her. He bent down and touched his bloated lips to her painted ones, and he whispered against her mouth, "Christine, I love you."

"You say that all the time," Christine said with a little smile.

"And every time I say it, I mean it more," Erik replied. "Come. We must get you to your masquerade, my dear. They're all waiting for you."

* * *

Christine hesitantly opened the door of her dressing room and looked around. No one was in the corridor outside. She gestured for Erik to follow, and they slipped into the dark hallway. She could hear the tinkling of Champagne glasses and voices murmuring as she neared the doorway that led to the grand foyer of the Palais Garnier. Christine stopped before the door and swallowed hard. She reached for Erik's gloved hand and whispered,

"I'm afraid."

"You're afraid of what they'll think of us." Erik sighed. "Christine, it is a lesson you must learn… whatever anyone else thinks of you, you know who you are."

She turned and stared at him in the dim corridor. She blinked back tears, for she knew what he meant. People throwing things at him whilst he'd been locked in a cage. A mother who wouldn't even name him. All manner of abuse had been unleashed upon him. But she loved him. She loved him more than anything. She reached for his good cheek and then brought him down to kiss her. His left hand went to her shoulder and his right hand settled on her waist. He kissed her deeply, passionately, as if letting go of her would kill him. Finally, he pulled his mouth from Christine's and stared down at her shortened skirt. His breath was coming quick and shallow through his nostrils, and he whispered,

"I want you."

"Erik," Christine said with a smile, "The ball is beginning."

"Yes." He nodded, blinking a few times as if to rouse himself from a stupor. He huffed an enormous breath, licked his lips, and said, "Let's go."

Christine opened the door then, and suddenly the light of the gas lamps bathed her. There were people mingling everywhere, but in their costumes, Christine barely recognised anyone. She shut the door behind Erik and whispered,

"Hold my hand, will you?"

"Why don't you hold my arm?" Erik suggested. He gave her a meaningful look, and she hesitantly put her hand on the forearm he extended. They walked down one side of the sweeping staircase, one step at a time, and Christine muttered to Erik,

"I'm going to trip and fall down these stairs."

"I would never let that happen to you," Erik said calmly.

She felt a swell of emotion then, even more so when they reached the bottom of the stairs and Erik plucked two flutes of Champagne from a nearby serving tray. Christine gratefully accepted hers and took a large gulp at once.

"Slowly, beauty," Erik warned her. "You don't want to act foolishly tonight."

Christine shut her eyes. She felt a hand upon her shoulder, warm and heavy, and realised Erik was comforting her, right here in front of everybody.

"Christine?"

She whirled around so fast that she almost dropped her Champagne. Erik quickly grabbed at the glass and rescued it, but a little bit splattered onto his sleeve. He cleared his throat, now holding a glass in each hand, as a blonde-haired young woman and her tall, well-dressed beau came sauntering up.

"Christine Daaé," said the voice that Christine immediately recognised as Raoul's, "You may be hiding your face, but that hair…" He tutted. "We knew you from across the room."

_We._ He was here with Meg, then? They did seem to be coordinated. Raoul was in a sapphire blue and silver velvet ensemble, and Meg's dress had matching blue velvet skirts and a bodice with a silver tulle overlay. Christine immediately realised that the vicomte had paid for Meg's costume, and she smiled a little.

"Meg," she said, speaking directly to her friend, "This is my husband. Erik."

Meg just stared for a very long while at Erik, her jaw squaring. But then she dipped into a reverential curtsy and murmured,

"How do you, Monsieur?"

"I hear it's you we have to thank for Christine's beautiful voice," said Raoul. Meg was still staring at Erik in a way that made Christine more than a little uncomfortable. She frowned at Meg, but the blonde's eyes were locked on Erik's face.

"Oh, she barely needed any tutoring to get where she is today," Erik said stiffly to Raoul. "My Christine is endowed with a voice of preternatural grace and power."

"Maestro," Christine said softly, feeling her cheeks flush hot with embarrassment. Meg opened her mouth like she meant to say something, but then Raoul cut in again.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur; I did not introduce myself. These masquerades are designed for secrecy, and, yet, we, must socialise. It's all quite contradictory, isn't it? In any case. I am Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and I am a patron of the -"

"Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte, I know who you are," Erik said. His eyes finally met Meg's. Meg shirked back a little at having been caught staring. Erik licked his lips, and Christine knew why. Even with his mask, it was obvious something was wrong with him. His pale, blind eye was sunken in a way his dark, seeing one was not. The skin visible around the edges of the mask was tight and wan. And the bloating on his oddly shaped mouth was visible out of necessity; he couldn't talk or eat if his mouth was covered. Perhaps, Christine thought, he should have made himself a full-face mask with just a little hole for talking.

"Monsieur… Erik." Meg stood up a little straighter. "Christine says you live in the rue de Rivoli."

"Erm… yes, sometimes." Erik was gnawing hard on his lip now. "I despise being stationary, you understand. I always need to move."

"Here; I can hold that now." Christine took her glass of Champagne back from Erik.

"May I propose a toast?" suggested Raoul, holding up his glass. "To Christine Daaé, the new _prima donna_ of the Opéra Populaire, whose voice is a gift to us all. To you, Christine."

Raoul stared straight into Christine's eyes, and she forced a smile as she said, "Thank you, Raoul."

All four of them drank then, though Erik had to manipulate his lips a little to properly sip the Champagne.

"Christine," Meg said softly, "could I speak with you for a moment?"

"Of course." Christine nodded. Meg's eyes flicked back and forth.

"Alone."

"Oh." Christine looked to Erik, who brought her gloved hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

"Don't keep me waiting for you," instructed her. "You know I don't like to be kept waiting."

He was teasing her, but it made her heart race. She thought of all the times she'd been late to his lessons, the way he'd chided her. She bowed her head and whispered,

"Tell Monsieur le Vicomte how you designed my wedding gown and our masquerade ensembles. I'm sure he'd be fascinated."

Erik scoffed. "Yes. Leave us men to talk of dresses. Go, beauty."

Christine tore herself away from his side with some difficulty, walking with Meg to a quieter part of the foyer. Meg looked concerned. Her eyes were glaring through her silver mask, and her lips were pinched in a line.

" _That_ is your Angel of Music?"

Christine balked. "What, is something wrong with him?"

"Well, evidently." Meg shrugged. "His eye and mouth look very strange."

"Well, he's got… a deformity of sorts," Christine admitted. "He has since birth. Even if this weren't a masquerade ball, he'd be covered up. People are cruel."

"He seems old," Meg said stoutly, and Christine rolled her eyes behind her mask.

"He's forty-one. Precisely forty-one." _Today is his birthday_ , she thought solemnly.

Meg sighed. She shook her head. " _Maman_ says that he does not live on the rue de Rivoli. She claims he lives here. In the Opera House."

Christine's eyes went wide. "Why would Madame Giry… why would she…"

_Betray us like this?_ Christine thought. She glanced over to see that the Persian, Monsieur Khan, who had donned a spangled black-and-white ensemble, had joined Raoul and Erik in conversation. That was good, Christine thought. She turned her face back to Meg and shook her head.

"Your mother does not know as much as she thinks she does."

"Where do you sleep at night, Christine?" Meg looked downright cross then, and Christine puffed a breath.

"I sleep in the house my husband built… in the home he meant for us to share. Please, Meg, don't make me cry at this silly party. Please just let it go."

"Promise me you are safe," Meg demanded, and Christine nodded vigorously.

"Yes. Of course. He takes such good care of me. I'm spoiled by him. I'm in love, Meg. Isn't that all that really counts?"

"I suppose so." Meg lowered her gaze. "Christine… do you remember when Anastasie had to leave the ballet corps because she had a child put on her?"

Christine said nothing. Her eyes prickled a little. Meg raised her gaze and stared straight into Christine's eyes.

"I was meant to start my bleeding three days ago. Should I be worried? They say that if you don't bleed, it means you've had a child put on you."

Christine's eyebrows flew up. "Meg! Have you and Raoul -"

"Kissed? Yes. Touched? Yes." Meg seemed anxious and ashamed. "I even let him caress my breasts when I was in a ballet costume. Do you think that I -"

"Has he entered you?" Christine asked sharply, and Meg shrugged.

"What?"

Christine scowled. She whispered her next words in a hiss. "Has he taken the manhood between his legs and put it in the entrance between your legs? And did he finish within you?"

Meg's bright eyes widened. " _No_ ," she insisted fiercely. "That's… _Maman_ says that doing that before you're married is a crime. That's why, when you got married, I asked you about consummation. _Maman_ says that consummation is illegal if you're not married."

Christine scoffed a little and said, "I don't think you'd go to jail for it, Meg, but that is indeed how babies are put upon women."

"Oh." Meg sighed. "So there could be another reason? Why I'm late?"

"You look thinner than usual," Christine noted. "Have you been eating?"

"I want to be beautiful for Raoul," Meg said, and Christine rubbed at her friend's shoulder.

"I'm sure he finds you very beautiful just the way you are. And it doesn't sound like you're with child, Meg. Just be careful. You want to be the wife of the vicomte, not his little plaything."

"How did you know?" Meg asked softly. "How did you know that you were in love with him?"

Christine shut her eyes and spoke gently, as if she were dreaming. Images raced behind her eyelids.

"Once I realised that he was already in love with me, I asked myself… what would it take to love him back? And then I thought of the time we'd spent together, and I realised… I already loved him. I fell in love so quickly that I didn't even notice it happening. It just… _was_."

She opened her eyes to see Meg staring at her, lips parted and eyes circular.

"My goodness." Meg sipped her Champagne. "We should go rescue our men from their forced conversation."

Christine smiled a little at Meg and then walked back over to her. Raoul immediately put his hand to the small of Meg's back and said,

"Monsieur Khan, may I present Mademoiselle Meg Giry? Meg, this Nadir Khan; I'm sure you've seen him about."

"Yes, of course." Meg dipped into a little curtsy. "Monsieur Khan."

"Christine," said Erik, wrapping his free arm around Christine's narrow waist, "You know Daroga."

"Monsieur Khan." Christine grinned broadly at him. She sensed Meg's and Roaul's confusion, especially when Monsieur Khan said in a warm voice,

"Everything fits, I see."

"Yes. Erik wanted us to look like we'd stepped offstage from a Donizetti production," Christine joked. "I believe we have pulled off the illusion."

"Miss Daaé! Miss Daaé!"

Christine turned to see Messrs. André and Firmin, each wearing a birdlike mask with a beak, come trotting over to her. She curtsied to the managers as they approached, and when they reached her, Monsieur Firmin breathlessly said,

"Here she is! The star of the evening - the star of our company! The _prima donna_ herself!"

"Have you seen the reviews for _Il Muto?_ " asked Monsieur André. "Sensational!"  
"I believe they called her 'a much-needed renovation to the Opéra Populaire,'" said Raoul. He smiled at Christine and said, "Who would have thought, Little Lotte, that our paths would cross again this way?"

Erik's arm tightened around Christine's waist. Christine covered his gloved hand with hers and shook her head,

"You gentlemen flatter me."

"The newspapers are right, Christine; every performance is a triumph." Erik stared down at her, and then the little orchestra began to play. Monsieur Firmin turned to Monsieur André and said,

"Let us go and find our wives, shall we? Good evening Miss Daaé."

"It is _Madame,_ actually," Christine reminded them. Monsieur Firmin looked from Christine to the masked man holding onto her.

"Ah, yes. I'd forgotten that you'd married your tutor. And here I am, being quite rude. Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur…"

"Erik."

Firmin frowned. "Monsieur Erik. Congratulations on the wedding."

"I wish I'd been invited," protested Meg grumpily. Monsieur Khan chuckled a little and told Meg,

"Don't take it personally."

"When would be a good time for me to make a delivery to your offices, Messieurs?" asked Erik, and the two managers frowned.

"Any time."

"Well. I completed an opera about six months ago. It is entitled _La Belle en Secret._ A love story."

"Well," said Monsieur FIrmin, "I'm sure we would love to have a look at it with Monsieur Reyer and consider performing it."

"A good, new premiere is sure to sell out the seats," noted André with a greedy look behind his mask.

"I wrote it with Christine's voice in mind," said Erik. "I think you'll find it suits your company perfectly."

"Hmm." Firmin raised his brows. "By all means, do stop by sometime soon."

"It will be on your desks tomorrow," Erik said, and a sudden realisation seemed to come over Firmin and André. Was this the Opera Ghost, a fully formed man who stood before them?

"Christine," Erik stared down at Christine again. "Will you dance with me?"

"Of course." Christine nodded. "Messieurs… Meg."

She let Erik lead her away then, leaving the little cluster behind. He brought her out to the dance floor and pulled her into a very tight stance. Her chest was pressed against his abdomen, and as she stared up at him, the piece established a three beat count. Christine was a skilled dancer, and so, it seemed, was Erik. They waltzed smoothly, if awfully close together. Christine finally said up to Erik,

"Meg was afraid that she was with child."

She watched Erik's eyebrow depress. "Has she been as foolish as all that?"

"She only partially understood how it works. I was no better before you taught me."

"Hmm." Erik sniffed. "The vicomte has been awfully friendly with you tonight. What if he asks you to dance?"

"Just don't let go of me," Christine suggested, "and he won't have the opportunity to ask."

"I like that thought," Erik nodded. "The thought of never letting go of you."

She laughed softly. "You have to let me go for rehearsal and performances."

"Only for a little while," he said, "and then you come back to me."

Christine's eyes welled behind her mask. "It's your birthday."

"I've told you that I do not care about my birthday."

Suddenly a dancing couple behind Erik careened into him, for they were obviously a few glasses deep into the Champagne and had been dancing in far too grand a stance for the space. The gentleman crashed into the back of Erik's form, and Erik bent over with a grunt.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. The curved wire that Erik had used to secure his costume mask over his wig flung off, and the mask was catapulted to the ground. The wig was carried away with the mask. Christine gasped and immediately made a move for it all, but another dancing man stepped right on the delicate papier mâché, crunching it.

She heard Erik panting above her, and as Christine righted herself with the broken mask and wig in her hands, she could see that Erik was frantically covering half his face with both hands.

"Oh, I do beg your pardon," said the man behind Erik.

"Did I tread upon the mask? So sorry," said the man in front of Christine. She stood there, helpless, holding the partially-dissolved mask with its sorry, bent metal fastener. Erik lowered his face and growled like an animal, but that only made people stop dancing to stare at the curious scene unfolding before them.

"Erik," Christine whispered, "let's go."

"Monsieur," said the tipsy man who had crashed into Erik, "it appears I've wounded you. My God, forgive me! I am so sorry."

"Let's go, Erik," Christine mumbled in desperation. But the stupid man who had been drunkenly dancing came around to the front of Erik's face and wrenched his hands away.

"I am a physician, as it happens," said the man. "A patron of the opera. Please, if you'll allow me to look at the wound, I could properly -"

The man gasped then, for he'd successfully ripped Erik's hand from his face. Erik's breath came in long, shaking puffs as he looked around in fear and alarm. Then rage seemed to take him over, and he snarled viciously. Gazes of horror stared back at him. He was utterly revealed.

The people who had stopped dancing could now see the bald head, the rivulets and divots of scarred tissue, the angry veins criss-crossing the face, the hole where his ear was meant to be, the pale, sunken, unseeing eye. They could see the strange yank of Erik's swollen lips, and the black patch on his cheekbone.

Suddenly Erik looked like he wanted to kill every single person in the room.

"It's him," said a voice, and when Christine looked up, she saw Meg Giry pointing straight at Erik. "He's the Phantom, the Ghost. Joseph Buquet always warned us about him."

"Meg!" shrieked Christine, and she started to make her way over to where Meg stood. But Erik snatched her arm and threw something onto the ground in front of him. There was a loud bang and a blinding flash with loads of sparks, and smoke filled the air. People started screaming, and in the chaos, Erik dragged Christine over to the paneled walls. He pried one panel open and pushed Christine inside, yanking shut the panel behind them. They were in pitch darkness then, and Erik murmured,

"Let me carry you."

"What? Erik!" Christine was confused as he hoisted her up and carried her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He began descending a winding staircase, and Christine just held on tightly to him. As they made their way downward, she demanded,

"Are all of your entrances secured?"

"I'm not confident about that," he said breathlessly. Daroga knows them, and Madame Giry knows at least one. We need to pack a few things and go. I need to get my mask."

His white, normal mask, he meant. Christine shut her eyes and began to sob.

"Where are we going to go?" she asked against his shoulder, crying so hard she could barely breathe.

"To the only place in this city that's safe for us now," Erik said. "Daroga's flat. In the rue de Rivoli."

**Author's Note: Oh, no! Poor Erik, right? Will Monsieur Khan help them? What happens now that Meg is convinced Christine is married to the Phantom of the Opera? Will Christine be able to sing again? All these questions and more will be answered.**

**Thank you so much for reading and please do review if you have a moment.**


	14. To Pick Up the Pieces

Christine had no idea how they were going to get to Nadir Khan's flat. She fretted as she stuffed dresses and undergarments and her vanity set into her worn carpet bag. She rushed into Erik's room to see that he was tossing formal clothes and a nightshirt into a small suitcase. He threw in his razor and a bar of soap, which he'd evidently gotten from his bathroom. He produced another wig, for the one he'd been wearing earlier was destroyed from being stamped upon by dancers. He put the wig on his head and secured his normal, white mask. He was still wearing his militaristic scarlet outfit, and Christine was in her costume, as well.

"Let's go," Erik said tightly. "Daroga will help us; I have plenty of money for him."

"Where's the money?" Christine asked anxiously. Erik opened the second small suitcase on his bed and displayed the neatly bound notes to Christine. She gasped. There had to be a half million francs in there. He'd saved most of his 'salary' from the managers, then. With that money, Christine thought, they could be free.

When they exited the house, Erik murmured to Christine, "Get in the gondola. Here. Put the suitcases by your feet. He'll be waiting."

"Who will?" Christine asked, but Erik just punted the boat away from the shore and over to a dark section of the lake where Christine had never been. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breathing sped up as they sailed into inky blackness. But Erik seemed to know where he was going, as if he had a cat's vision. Finally Christine felt the boat pull up onto the shore of the lake, and Erik punted it sideways so he could step out. Christine blinked in the darkness and sensed, rather than saw, the way that Erik pulled out his suitcase of clothes and the case of money. Christine took her carpet bag in her hand and let Erik help her out of the boat.

"We have to climb. This staircase is long. I want you ahead of me in case you fall backwards," Erik told her. Christine huffed, afraid because she couldn't see anything. She followed Erik's footsteps by sound, and he opened a creaking door. Christine stumbled as she tried to go through the doorway.

"Step up," Erik commanded her. Christine began to climb, gliding one hand against the stone wall as she ascended. She got dizzy after three or four levels and felt like she couldn't breathe. She paused, and Erik came up onto the pitch-black step where she had stopped. He made a move to kiss her, but his lips missed her mouth and instead touched at her cheek.

"I'm so sorry, beauty," he murmured, and she could hear the way he was crying. "It was my hideous face that caused all the… if they ever let you sing again, it will be a certified miracle, and it's all my fault. Forgive me, I beg you."

"There is nothing to forgive," Christine insisted. She reached out with her free hand and dusted her fingertips over the black military braiding on Erik's scarlet jacket. "If Meg had kept her mouth shut… I'll never speak to her again. People are so hateful. I saw the way they looked at you."

"We have to keep going," Erik said. "Daroga can only wait for so long."

"How do you know he'll be waiting?" Christine asked, and Erik just whispered,

"I know the things I know for good reason, Christine. Please keep going."

Christine climbed again, thinking of how they'd been betrayed. Madame Giry had told Meg that Christine's husband lived in the opera house. Why would Madame Giry do such a thing? Why had Meg called out that Erik was the Phantom of the Opera, as if anyone in the room had doubted something was terribly wrong with him? Christine felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she realised just how violated all of this made her feel. She couldn't even begin to imagine how Erik was feeling. She finally reached the top of the stairs she'd been climbing, and she walked straight into a wall.

"That's a door," said Erik from behind her. "Push hard. Be careful when you get outside."

Christine frowned. She set down her carpet bag and pushed as firmly as she possibly could against the wall in front of her. Stone grated on stone, and she felt the warm night air of the outside flooding over her. After a few blinks, she could see. The city outside was bathed in lamplight, and there was a black carriage on the road in front of her. Christine snatched her carpet bag off the ground and trotted out into the darkness.

She turned over her shoulder and saw Erik shoving the stone door shut. It blended right into the structure of the opera house once he'd shut it. He carried his suitcase in one hand and his money case in the other. He jerked his chin towards the carriage and whispered to Christine,

"Let's go."

Christine followed him to the carriage, whose door opened as if a ghost had done the deed. Erik heaved himself into the carriage, set down his suitcase and money, and then held out a hand to help Christine inside. Once she was in the dark carriage, Erik pulled the door shut, and someone banged a few times on the ceiling. The carriage began moving at once, and Christine finally realised that the other man beside Erik was Nadir Khan.

"Monsieur Khan," breathed Christine. "This is your carriage?"

"It is a cab," said Khan quietly. He looked to Erik and said firmly, "I am sorry you were exposed."

Erik shook his head. He looked incredibly frustrated. "Will you give us shelter?"

"I'll do you better than that," Khan said softly. "The flat below mine has recently been vacated. I shall speak with the landlady and see if she'll rent it to you. It is furnished but modest."

"Christine will go with you to speak with her." Erik shut his eyes and tipped his head back against the seat. "I'm so sorry, beauty."

Christine blinked through her tears. "Erik. Even if I never sing again onstage, all that matters to me is that I'm with you."

"I think the two of you need to lay low for a while," said Khan. "Erik, my friend, you hid in the shadows for years. Surely you can hide in a flat."

"Will you help us?" asked Christine. "Will you help us stay hidden?"

"Of course I will," Khan nodded. "I owe Erik far more than this."

Christine wondered just how these two men had crossed paths, but she stayed quiet. It took another ten minutes or so to get to Monsieur Khan's flat on the rue de Rivoli. Erik helped Christine out of the carriage, and then Khan climbed out and shut the door.

"Come with me," Khan said softly to Christine. "My landlady is remarkably open-minded. She rented to me, a Muslim, a Persian, in a city that has never quite liked my skin or accent."

"Here, Christine." Erik went over to the entrance of the door and opened his money case. He pulled out a handful of bills and passed them to Christine. "Pay for a few months' rent. In good faith."

Christine tucked the money into her carpet bag. She reached for Erik's face and asked, "How will I find you?"

"You won't," he said quietly. "I'll find you. Don't worry, my dear. All will be well."

Monsieur Khan led Christine through a black door on a whitewashed building, and she followed him up two flights of stairs. Her legs were burning now after so much stair-climbing today. Monsieur Khan knocked firmly on a door labeled _1_ and took a step back, waiting.

"One moment!" called a voice from inside the flat. Khan looked Christine up and down and whispered,

"I wish you and he had changed out of your costumes, but…"

"I will pay for her silence," Christine said firmly. Khan smirked at her and murmured,

"You're bolder than I thought you'd be. He always described you as a little flit of a thing."

"Circumstance has emboldened me," Christine nodded. Suddenly the door to Flat 1 opened, and a white-haired woman in a dark brown taffeta dress stood flicking her eyes between Monsieur Khan and Christine.

"Is she with you?" asked the woman.

"No. Madame Charlotte Caron, may I introduce the wife of my good friend. Christine, this is my landlady."

"Your good friend," repeated Madame Caron, narrowing her eyes. "Who is he?"

Christine ignored the question. "Madame, it is my understanding that you have a flat available. We would like to let it. My husband is… he is disfigured. He mustn't show his face. We can pay in advance."

She reached into her carpet back and pushed the fistful of bills towards Madame Caron. The old woman gasped at the amount of money she'd been given. She counted the bills and nodded.

"Number 4 is yours," said Madame Caron, "and I have never met a Christine, nor a disfigured man."

Christine smiled warmly at the older woman and bowed her head.

"Thank you kindly, Madame Caron."

"Goodnight, 'll owe me thirty francs a month starting in August."

She pulled out a key from inside her dress pocket and shoved it into Christine's hand. She shut her door, and Christine heard it lock. She looked up at Monsieur Khan and said,

"Number 4, then. How will I let Erik know?"

"He'll find you," Khan said, curling up half his mouth. "Erik sees everything, hears everything, and he's completely invisible whilst doing so. As the Daroga, this infuriated and inspired me. He is an enigmatic man. You have married a mystery."

"Thank you for helping us," whispered Christine, and Monsieur Khan nodded firmly.

"I'll go to the opera house tomorrow to find out what everyone's saying. I'll come report the news to you both."

"Thank you," Christine said again. Khan trotted up the stairs, and Christine slowly followed. She climbed one more flight of stairs and then reached the door marked _4_. She put the key into the lock and turned it, pushing the door open. She almost screamed when she saw a man standing in the small parlour of the flat. Then she realised it was Erik. How had he gotten inside already?

He held up a small metal instrument and then tucked it into his pocket. "Ghost, freak, architect, musician, monster… locksmith."

"Erik." Christine shut the door and turned the lock, knowing that no one besides Erik would be able to get in. She looked around the flat, taking in the tiny kitchen at the back, the plain bathroom, the maroon-outfitted parlour, and the small bedroom with its low but elegant mahogany bed. There was only one wardrobe, so they'd have to share, but that was fine. They were married now. Christine felt Erik's presence at her side in the bedroom, and she whispered,

"Monsieur Khan is going to go to the Populaire tomorrow to scope things out. He'll come back with news."

"Daroga will be a staunch ally through all of this," Erik replied. "I can't… I wish I could turn the clock back, Christine, and ensure that that buffoon hadn't bumped into me."

"You must've felt awful," Christine said, her eyes welling. She blinked, and twin tears leaked from her eyes. "You must've felt all those eyes upon you filled with hatred."

"I'm used to the sensation. I ruined your masquerade. That's the only thing that matters," Erik mumbled. "I've ruined your career."

"No." Christine looked right at him and said stiffly, "That buffoon who bumped into you ruined my career. The man who stepped on your mask and broke it ruined my career. You have done nothing wrong, Erik. I could never find it in my heart to be cross with you right now."

"I think we should go to bed," Erik suggested. "I am anxious. I need to rest."

"Of course." Christine walked out of the bedroom and went into the little bathroom. She untied her delicate red mask and sniffed. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. The kohl with which she'd lined her eyes was running down her face from her tears. It took her ten minutes to scrub the greasy black makeup off. She scrubbed her lips and cheeks, too, and then she began to cry again as she unfastened the hooks running down the front of her red and black bodice. Once she'd peeled it off, she folded it and set it aside. She peeled her skirt and petticoats over her head, and she began to dismantle her undergarments. Once her corset was off, she bent down and unbuckled the spats over her boots. She slid the boots and stockings off, and she removed her one-piece combination drawers. She balled all of the clothes up into her arms and walked back into the bedroom, seeing that Erik was unloading their clothes into the wardrobe.  
"How are we going to get food?" Christine asked.

"Daroga will procure it for us," Erik assured her. "I pay him well."

"Our money will eventually run out," Christine fretted, but Erik scoffed and said,

"Not for a very long time. We'll have something else figured by then."

He seemed to notice then that Christine was naked, her figure obscured by the mass of clothing she was holding. He gulped as he looked at her and asked,

"Would you like a nightgown?"

"Not really, no." Christine needed to feel him tonight. She needed to be with him. She began putting pieces of her masquerade ensemble away in the wardrobe, and she watched out of her peripheral vision as Erik began to disrobe on the other side of the room. He stripped off his red jacket, his white shirt beneath, his black breeches, and his boots. Christine shut the wardrobe and looked at him for a moment as he pulled off the last scraps of clothing. He cleared his throat and came over to the wardrobe, putting everything in there one piece at a time.

As he shut the wardrobe door again, he stared down at Christine and whispered,

"I have failed you, Christine."

"No. You have not. And I won't ask you to take the mask off tonight, because I understand that you must be feeling terrible things right now. But I would like for you to touch me, as your wife."

She stared down at her hand, where he'd put diamonds and gold upon her skin. She remembered panicking when she'd seen the wax figure in the wedding gown. Now all she cared about was staying with him forever.

"Christine… my Christine…" Erik neared her and encouraged her to stand facing away from him. Then he pulled her back against him, his hardening cock folding up against the small of her back. He put his left hand over one small, round breast and fiddled with her nipple, and his other hand trailed down between her legs and daubed at her clit with his fingertips. She wasn't wet, not yet anyway, so she tipped her head back against his chest and listened to him breathe. She turned her head a little and whispered,

"How I love you."

"A monster," he insisted, but she shook her head and focused on the feel of his hands upon her. Damp heat flushed between her legs, and she felt a trickle of fluid go down her inner thigh. Her body was awakening for him. Her nipples were peaked and her breath hitched a little as she murmured again,

"I love you so much that it hurts sometimes."

He kissed her forehead. "Do you feel it, Christine?"

"Feel what?" She was breathless now, so Erik brushed his lips over her head and tightened his grip on her breast. He ground his rigid cock against the small of her back and twisted two fingers inside of her. His thumb worked her clit as his fingers stretched her open, readying her for what she supposed was to come. His voice sounded desperate as he whispered,

"Do you feel that we are one now?"

"Yes," she answered at once, without a moment's hesitation.

"I'll be gentle," he promised her. "So gentle with you, my Christine."

"Mmph." Christine stood on her tiptoes and rotated her face until his mouth crashed onto hers. The porcelain of his mask was cold against her cheek, but she would never ask him to take it off tonight. He'd already been too exposed. So she kissed him hard as his left hand trailed over her ribcage and massaged the flesh between her hip and backside. She kissed him as his other hand spread out her womanhood and played with her nub. She kissed him for a very, very long time, until everything started to go hot and tight and she felt like she couldn't stand it anymore. She ripped her mouth from his and moaned loudly.

"Hush, beauty," Erik whispered. "We've got neighbours now."

"Oh, take me to the bed," Christine begged. Erik shook his head.

"No. You finish first."

Her head was spinning. She saw spots and heard ringing, and then everything snapped. Her walls were clenching arrythmically around Erik's fingers. Her breasts were so sensitive that her nipples stung a little in the cool air. She tipped her head against his chest. She felt him grinding against her back. As she came down from her high, she realised he had no intention of stopping his movements. She reached for his face and saw that his eyes were glazed with want. She nodded and urged him on.

"Cover me in it. In your seed. I want it all over me."

"Oh, God, Christine." Erik's breath shook like mad at her filthy talk. His good side of his face flushed deeply red.

"You're so big… and you're so hard." Christine cycled her hips back against him as he ground his erection. He grunted softly a few times, his lips going into a line. Christine knew that he was being egged on by how she was talking. His hand remained at her womanhood, his fingers working their way around her sodden entrance. Suddenly Christine began to feel the rise in tension, the signs that another climax was imminent. She gasped and whispered to Erik,

"Please don't stop. It's going to happen again."

"Yes," he hissed. "Mmm. Do it for me, Christine."

"It's your fingers making me feel this way," she said. "It's your member against my flesh making me feel this way."

He ground his cock against her back again. It was slippery now; he'd released some sort of fluid that was making him move more easily. Christine's head thudded as she neared the phantom edge again. She turned her mouth towards his and murmured,

"Please kiss me through it."

"Yes." He locked his lips onto hers, and Christine was lost. She moaned again, more softly this time, as her climax took her over. More contractions, more whirling through space behind her eyes, more tingling of skin, more fire in her veins. She turned around to face Erik, and he seemed disappointed for a moment until she descended to her knees and clutched his cock in her hand.

"Grant me your seed, Erik," she whispered, and his facial features twisted. She stroked at him, playing with his tip, with his shaft. His twin orbs retreated up towards his body, and his thighs tightened. He was close. She could tell. She started up at him with his cock in her mouth and groaned onto his skin. That seemed to do him in. He shook his head madly and whispered,

"Out of your mouth. You don't want to taste it."

Christine defiantly pushed him more deeply down her throat until she almost gagged. She gave him a cheeky look, raising her eyebrows, and he was done for. His cock twitched in Christine's hand as jets of fluid burst into her mouth. It tasted like a metal spoon dipped in sour milk, but she didn't care. She drank it all down and then licked her lips once he'd finished. He stared down at her and shook his head.

"I thought you were gone from me forever," he said.

"When?" Christine asked, wiping her lips with the back of her wrist.

"When you first saw my face," he said. He tipped his head. "When you saw the wedding gown. When I tried to put an engagement ring on your finger."

"We'd determined never to speak of that again." Christine slowly rose from her knees. "Hadn't we?"

"Christine, it _matters_ to me that you still love me." Erik sounded utterly desperate then. "Daroga is my friend, but even he is sceptical of me. I have never been loved. Not ever."

"Well, _I_ love you with all of my heart," Christine informed him. They made their way to the bed, snuggling up next to one another naked beneath the blankets. Christine tossed a leg over Erik's hips and cast an arm across his chest. She burrowed up against his bicep and worried, "Your birthday got ruined."

"I am about to go to sleep naked with the only woman I could ever love." Erik pet her hair and kissed her forehead. "What more could I want on my birthday?"

"I wonder what Monsieur Khan will discover tomorrow when he goes to the opera house," Christine said. "I wonder what news he'll bring."

"Things are going to be different now," Erik said softly. "Believe me. I know from experience. One look at my face and people hate me forever. I apologise that you've been swept up in it all."

"There's nothing to do but wait. And whilst we wait, I suggest we sleep," Christine said. "I have a feeling it will be a fitful night for the both of us."

"Goodnight, Christine," Erik whispered. He stroked her bare back with his fingertips, making her shiver. She curled more closely against him, shut her eyes, and breathed him in.

"Goodnight, Angel."

**Author's Note: So they got a safe-ish place, but what will Monsieur Khan discover when he goes back to the opera house? Erik's and Christine's futures hang in the balance. Thank you so much for reading and a massive thank-you for reviewing.**


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